


Rain of Blood

by Rescind



Category: Rurouni Kenshin, Worm - Wildbow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9063652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rescind/pseuds/Rescind
Summary: The City of Brockton Bay is no stranger to conflict. With gangs led by powerful Parahumans vying for territory, product, and profit, more than a few innocent people get caught in the middle. When the Asian Bad Boyz take over her neighborhood, demanding payment for the protection of those few residents that remain, Taylor Hebert is forced to make a most difficult decision.





	1. 1.1

Rain of Blood  
1.1  
  
"Please God, no..." Dad's whisper was muffled by the hands he cradled his face with. Sitting in his wheelchair, he leaned forwards heavily onto the kitchen table, appearing as though he'd be unable to support his own weight without the rigid surface. Head shaking in denial, he continued to whisper to himself. "Not this. Anything but this."  
  
I watched him from the corner of my eye, unable to face him directly because of the shame that coursed through me and undoubtedly painted my face. My left hand nervously tapped away at the pommel of the tinkertech alloy katana, thrust through the sash around my waist. The blade's reassuring presence helped me to steel my nerves, regardless of the fact that it would be of no use to me for this particular confrontation.  
  
The silence stretched on, each agonizingly long second punctuated by the near thunderous tick of the cheap clock mounted next to the fridge. Fidgeting, I reached up with my right hand to brush a wayward lock of dark curly hair behind my ear. A glint of light drew my attention as I pulled my hand away. On the outside of the firm black bracer that protected my forearm, wrist, and hand, the stylized oriental dragon reflected the dim kitchen light off its bright golden surface.  
  
Dad let out a long shaky breath.  
  
"Why Taylor?" He asked, fear and desperation coloring his voice and making him sound so much smaller than the once confident and fiery spirited man who'd held the Brockton Bay dockworkers association together for years. "Why would you do this?" I flinched, the note of betrayal in the question striking me like a blow to the face. I opened my mouth, fumbling through my thoughts for an adequate response that wouldn't hurt him more, only to be preempted by his defeated whisper.  
  
"It's because of me, isn't it?"  
  
"Dad, no!" I responded immediately, desperate to reassure him no matter how right he may have been. "It's not- I didn't-" My left hand clamped down around the hilt of my blade as I pushed off from my lean against the wall, raking through my hair with my right as I struggled to come up with an excuse. "They took over the whole neighborhood dad, I had no other choice! We can't afford to pay the protection fees and I- The Protectorate can't- no, **won't** push them out. This area's not valuable enough. It's- It's **Lung** dad, and they've got this new Tinker who specializes in bombs, and is littering them over the whole area."  
  
"Taylor," Dad cut in, breaking off my growing tirade. "It doesn't matter what happens to me. I can figure something out. I can take out a loan and we can move far away from here. This house, this city, none of it matters anymore. We- we don't even have to pack. Let's just get up, and leave, and go somewhere else. Somewhere far away-"  
  
"No dad." I interrupted, lips pressed together as I shook my head in denial. "We can't. These people, they **know** who I am. They'll never just let us leave. I know they're watching and if it even looks like you're **thinking** about running-"  
  
" **I don't care!** " My dad's scream was punctuated by his fist slamming down on the table. Something cracked and it tipped, a glass of water falling over with a clatter and rolling over the edge to hit the floor with a crash. "I know how these people operate Taylor, threatening you with your family to get you to obey. Don't listen to them! I don't care what happens to me-"  
  
" **I do!** " I screamed back, whipping around to meet his eyes and pointing frantically at myself for emphasis. " **I** care! Me! Your daughter! Your last surviving family! You're all I have left dad! I can't lose you too. I won't." I managed to keep my voice steady even as the first tears began to trail down my face. My explosive response caught him off guard and we lapsed back into silence again, unblinking stares locked together with pain and desperation.  
  
Eventually I turned away, blinking the tears out of my eyes as I stomped over to where the glass had hit the ground. Stooping low, I started picking shards off the floor, carefully cradling the growing pile in my other hand. As I worked, dad put his elbow on the armrest of his wheelchair and leaned heavily into his hand.  
  
"I'm always making a mess of things." He said, his voice quiet and a bit hoarse. "Things went to hell and I was never there for you. I drowned myself in work, just trying to forget the painful things and I lost sight of you. Boy did I pay for that one." With a self deprecating and mirthless chuckle, he knocked on the hard plastic of the wheelchair. "You did too, maybe more than me."  
  
"Dad-" As I stood to dump the shards into the trash, my attempt at an interruption was ignored. Dad continued.  
  
"I thought that was the lowest things could get: me getting hurt and being unable to work. When you decided to drop out of high school to get some dinky part time job, I wanted to say something, anything to convince you not to, but I couldn't. I was weak, and I knew that without the money, we'd be out in the streets before long. I swore to myself that as soon as I was able, I'd make it up to you. That it wouldn't be for long. How full of shit am I?"  
  
I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that it wasn't his fault. I wanted to tell him that I didn't resent him and that I didn't mind working, that it was better than high school ever was. I wanted to tell him that he shouldn't feel guilty, that he'd done the best he could given the circumstances.  
  
But I couldn't, because somewhere in the back of my mind, a little seed of resentment lingered. A little piece of me did actually look back on our lives, on the last few years, and found my father wanting. Found the things that he could have done better, should have done differently. " _I'm your daughter, and you all but abandoned me when I needed you most."_ It whispered to my subconscious and polluted my compassion and understanding with oil slicks of anger and hate.  
  
I hated that part of myself almost as much as I've come to hate this city.  
  
Dumping the rest of the glass in the trash bin, I wiped my hands to clear off any smaller bits and took a hair tie from my wrist to bundle my curls into a low ponytail. Finally, I wiped the tears off my face on the black fabric at my shoulders and turned back to dad and walked up to him slowly. When he didn't look up, I put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. He lifted his head to face me and I gave him a weak smile.  
  
"We'll get through this. Both of us. Just like everything before, and whatever else may end up happening. This," I gestured to myself, to the costume I was wearing, a sort of loose black ninja outfit, and the sword at my hip. "Isn't forever. As much as Lung's using me, I'm using him too. I'll bleed him for everything he's worth and then at the end, when I've found a safe way to do it, I'll get us both out of this city and we can start over. Give the whole father daughter thing another shot, right?"  
  
He turned away, facing down into his lap. I followed his gaze to see his hands, shaking with how hard they were clenched, on top of his unfeeling legs. Giving his shoulder a brief squeeze, I let my hand slide off and made my way to the backdoor. With a quick tug, I pulled up the thick black fabric around my neck to cover the lower half of my face up to the bridge of my nose and slid the other hood like section up over the top of my ponytail. As I was opening the door to leave, dad called out to me one last time.  
  
"I love you, Taylor."  
  
I hesitated, and just before slipping out the door, replied.  
  
"I know."  
  
\------------------------------------------------  
  
Standing at the mouth of a dark alley, the designated gathering point for my group, I tapped a steady rhythm on the pommel of my sword. It was a little tic I'd developed since I'd been given the traditional Japanese blade, a plain katana with a black scabbard and hilt, a week ago. I guessed that it had something to do with my power, but simply being reminded of the blade's presence at my side did wonders for calming my frayed nerves.  
  
My power was strange in comparison to some of the others I was aware of. Instead of granting me a single obvious ability, I had a grab-bag of minor enhancements to my body and mind, coupled with an innate understanding and mastery of the use of a sword. What I lacked in brute strength and durability, I made up for with pure speed, quick thinking, and a profound skill that I had not practiced a day of my life to earn.  
  
It was a bit stupefying that such an oddly specific ability was possible when swords, and a Japanese katana specifically, were not exactly common. I had spent many a night with a queasy feeling in my stomach thinking about the implications: that maybe I was destined to join the ABB right from the start. Where else would I be likely to get a sword heralding back to a country that had long since died at the hands of Leviathan.  
  
I shook my head to clear away unnecessary thoughts. What was important was the now. I'd been forced to join a dangerous gang that normally only lined its ranks with those of Asian descent. If I wanted to keep my head above the water, and secure both my own safety and that of my father's I couldn't afford to hesitate. Powers or not, I was the little white girl who had to prove her worth in a big way. Lung's personal hand in "recruiting" me had kept the dissenters at bay, but I didn't know how long that would last for. My powers had made me somewhat tougher, but I didn't think I was anywhere near bulletproof. All it would take would be one "accident," and I'd be just as dead as anyone else.  
  
I couldn't afford to risk that. My life wasn't the only one on the line. Without me, my dad would have no way to support himself. The compensation he'd been receiving ever since his accident wasn't even enough to cover the essentials and that was without the added problems being paralyzed from the waist down brought to the table. Brockton Bay was a dying city and the shipping industry had long since collapsed. There simply wasn't any money left to help a crippled salary man support himself for the rest of his life, and so my dad had been abandoned, just like a good half of this city.  
  
I was still here though. I was still healthy. I could still work, and just recently, I had gotten super powers. My dad was the only family I had left since my mom died three years ago, and if I had to lock away my principles and make a deal with the devil to save him, then that was exactly what I would do.  
  
After all, what had this city ever done for us? Dad had worked tirelessly to support the stagnating dockworkers association, bringing proposal after proposal to the mayor to try to turn things around. Every time he had been ignored and it became obvious that the city officials had no intentions of salvaging the Docks from the decay and poverty that overtook them. After all, simply cutting their losses was far easier.  
  
With me, I had been relentlessly and brutally bullied for over a year before dropping out of high school. I had brought my complaints and what evidence I could to the faculty and principal time and time again, desperately reaching out for help. Every last time, I was ignored. There was never enough evidence, in spite of the bruises and cuts that covered me, and never any witnesses, in spite of the teachers and students who caught my tormentors in the act only to turn away.  
  
Focusing on these slights made the justifications a little bit easier and a little more believable. I wasn't in a gang because I wanted to be after all, I had been forced by people stronger and more frightening than myself. No one could blame me for bowing my head to **Lung** , a villain strong enough to fight entire teams of heroes and come out on top. In addition, would it really be that bad a thing to lash out against an institution that was so corrupt and morally bankrupt that they'd abandon the people that relied on them just to make things easier for themselves?  
  
"Hey!" I was startled from my thoughts by a sharp voice with a thick accent. I turned quickly to the source, and came face to face with the leering visage of a fanged demon. Well, the mask of one at least. "Contact, group one. Time to go." It took me a moment to parse Oni Lee's thick accent and brief statements with their meaning.  
  
The group of Asian gang members I was waiting with tonight was the second gathering of two. The first group contained Lung, the leader and strongest parahuman of the ABB, and probably a couple dozen unpowered gang members to support him. Our group was similar, containing Oni Lee, one of Lung's parahuman lieutenants, myself, and another dozen Asian gangers armed with an array of guns, bats, knives, and bludgeons.  
  
"Right." I responded, trying to project more confidence into my voice than I felt, as I stepped out of the alleyway following behind Oni Lee. When we stepped clear of the surrounding buildings, he turned and lifted his head to stare off down the street. On top of a distant roof, the next block over, I could just make out a figure appear in the darkness. Taking a calming breath, I shifted my left hand to grasp firmly at the top of my blade's scabbard, right where it met the sword's guard, and broke out into a light jog. Behind me, Oni Lee's form crumbled into ash.  
  
Oni Lee was a teleporter with an extra trick. When he appeared somewhere new, he left behind a short lived clone where his body was previously. The clones had all of his gear: an array of knives, guns, and explosives, and were capable of independent action for anywhere between five to ten seconds before they decayed into a pile of ash. They were extremely useful as disposable combatants or as a distraction, and Oni Lee made full use of them as guided suicide bombers.  
  
He was also a murderous psychopath.  
  
I didn't want to lose track of him as I suspected that he had no intention of waiting for me, so I stopped holding back and let loose a burst of speed, crossing a full block in three lunging steps that hardly took me a blink of the eye to complete. Reaching the base of the building Oni Lee had appeared on, I looked up and quickly plotted my course. After a brief crouch I leapt straight up, easily clearing three stories, and with an extra push off of my selected windowsill, I cleared the top of the building to land on the roof.  
  
A few feet away, Oni Lee's clone crumbled into ash and I had a frantic moment where I glanced around searching for where he went. Thankfully, my sense of sight was one of the things that had been improved by my power and after a moment I spotted his silhouette breaking up the solid line of a distant rooftop. Wasting no time, I dashed off in the same direction, crossing over several roofs with a single step as the Docks rushed by beneath me.  
  
My speed was easily one of my stronger powers, so as soon as I managed to settle into an easy rhythm of steps, jumps, and lunges, I quickly closed the distance with the real Lee and followed closely behind. Several blocks ahead of us and a few hundred feet to the right, a plume of fire briefly illuminated the city night. Oni Lee adjusted his course to head towards it in a straight line and I diverted to follow.  
  
Where there was fire, there was sure to be Lung.  
  
The leader of the ABB was a powerful pyrokinetic who only grew more powerful the longer a fight dragged on. In addition to the fire, Lung possessed a potent regeneration ability that also scaled up with the length of the fight, and gradually turned more and more into an honest to God dragon. Well, a dragon like monster. I had seen him during the later stages on the night I'd been forcibly convinced to join, and while there were certainly many parts about him that resembled a dragon (like the talons, and tail, and scales) there were also parts that were a little bit off (like the split open, multi sectioned maw.) It made me think his form was some child's nightmare rendition of a dragon, instead of one straight from the pages of a fairytale.  
  
With three more teleports from Oni Lee, and several more high speed dashes from myself, we arrived on a battle scene straight out of a monster movie. Lung, already nearing ten feet tall, fully covered in gleaming silver scales, and sporting a serpentine tail and hands and feet tipped with dangerously sharp talons, was grappling viciously with three monstrous quadrupeds the size of minivans. All throughout the surrounding street and in-between the many buildings lining it, a thick inky blackness had settled over the area, obstructing all sight through it. The monsters appeared to be working together, one grappling with Lung directly as the other two snapped at his legs, arms, and tail, trying to clamp down and crush through his silver scales. Periodically, lungs skin would flare with fire, the flames bursting out and coiling around him to ward off the beasts which shied away from the intense heat.  
  
Every now and then, just as Lung would appear ready to deliver a decisive strike to one of the monsters, he seemed to stumble, losing his footing or having his arm swing wildly to the side in a complete miss. From the research I'd done about Lung's targets, I had a good idea what that meant.  
  
Lung's goal for tonight, was to make an example of a new group of minor villains that had turned up in Brockton Bay recently. They called themselves the Undersiders and were basically a group of thieving parahumans that specialized in "smash and grab" style capers. They were getting to be somewhat notorious for their slippery nature, always seeming to avoid capture or pursuit without serious complications. Apparently, one of their heists had mucked around with one of Lung's business ventures and he decided it was time to teach them their place in the pecking order.  
  
One of the Undersiders' members was a Master who had the power to screw with someone's body, making them stumble, trip, drop something, flail about, etc. on command. Basically, if I wanted to help and get in Lung's good graces, my immediate goal was to see if I could track down the nearby parahuman and stop him from interfering with Lung's fight.  
  
Stepping up next to Oni Lee on the edge of the building, I turned my sharp senses on the street and buildings around us, what little I could see of them with all of the strange black smoke around. Letting my eyes slide back and forth across the scene, I scanned the surroundings methodically. Every open space, every potential hiding spot, I studied sequentially, trying to avoid missing anything. It only took me a few passes to spot him.  
  
Between two warehouses, right at the edge of the area the thick black smoke concealed, a lithe figure wearing what looked like tights and a frilly white shirt was peering around the corner of a building. Every once in awhile, he would gesture wildly with what looked like some kind of ornamental scepter, and in response, Lung would stumble or suddenly loose his grip on one of the large monsters facing him. Behind that first figure, was what appeared to be a large man wearing black leathers with an opaque motorcycle helmet with some sort of graphic on the visor. From his position, he was more than half concealed by the rolling black smoke.  
  
Unsure of how to proceed, I tapped Oni Lee's shoulder to get his attention. His mask snapped around to face me and the sudden motion startled me enough that I took a step back. Quickly, I extended my arm and pointed out the two figures I'd spotted. Lee followed my finger and responded by reaching up to the bandolier strapped across his chest and pulling out a knife. With a sudden sinking feeling of apprehension, I snapped my attention back to the two people I'd pointed out just in time to see Oni Lee appear next to the one with the scepter and drive his knife straight into the distant figure's throat.  
  
I choked in a horrified gasp, right hand coming up to cover my mouth over my cloth mask as the grip of my left hand on my scabbard tightened enough to make the material groan. Oni Lee had almost certainly just killed the figure with the scepter and it was entirely my fault for pointing him out. I was overcome by a wave of vertigo and dropped to my knees to avoid falling over the side of the building.  
  
Death was certainly something I'd been aware of, something I'd come to accept since my mother passed away, but the casual murder that had just happened before my eyes was not something I'd been prepared for. I knew Oni Lee was a psychopath, a murderer with a body count higher than I'd wanted to think about, but to see him kill so callously, without hesitation, made me feel cold in a way the chill spring air had nothing to do with.  
  
_That could have been me._ I found myself thinking, a sort of numb realization setting over me. _That could still be me._ I amended a moment later. It wasn't as though my safety was assured. If there was one thing that had been made abundantly clear to me over the course of my short membership with the ABB, it was that Lung did not react well to disappointment. He tended to make examples out of those who failed him, using their punishments as incentive for others not to repeat their mistakes.  
  
My thoughts went back to dad, struggling to claw his way out of his wheelchair and onto the couch using only his arms. I thought of the railings he'd walked me through installing next to the toilets, so he could maintain some dignity in going to the bathroom by himself. I thought of all the little things throughout the day I had to help him do, and of all the hours I put into working the crummiest jobs I was able to scrounge up in a dying city, just to get enough money to put a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter on the table every week. I imagined dad, withering away in a wheelchair with no one to help him, if one day I never came home. I couldn't afford to give Lung reason to be disappointed with me.  
  
Taking a deep breath, I forced down my growing panic with cold, selfish logic. These people were villains. They'd had a choice, and had decided to antagonize Lung. I didn't know their individual circumstances, maybe they were good people in a bad situation like so many others. Maybe not. In the end, I couldn't afford to worry about them. I had just as much of a right to fend for myself and for my dad who relied on me, as they did for themselves. Could I be held at fault, simply because circumstances had put us, desperately struggling to stay afloat, opposed to one another? Letting the breath out, I steeled my resolve.  
  
Rising back to my feet, I turned my attention to Lung, as a cacophony of explosions roared out in quick succession a street away. He was still fighting the three monsters, but now, without the interference and having grown large enough to exceed their individual masses, he was quickly gaining the upper hand. He was almost certainly already on the path to victory, but there was no reason I couldn't act to speed things up a bit, making myself useful.  
  
The whisper of metal sliding along wood announced the drawing of my blade. With the surety of years of constant practice that I had never performed, I brought the blade up in a careful arc, gently taking hold of the bottom of the hilt with my left hand. With a fluid grace, I brought the glimmering metal around to point behind me over my left shoulder, as I stepped up to the edge of the building. I spotted my target, one of the monsters preparing to charge Lung from my left and stepped over the side, one foot still touching the edge of the roof. I relied on gravity to pivot me forwards from my point of contact, as the beast began its charge. Finally, as my body passed the point of being parallel with the surface of the ground, I pushed off from the roof, flying straight towards the creature's right flank at great speed.  
  
With a simple rotation of my body, my lunging fall, bodily rotation, and the swing of my arm added together granting my blade extreme cutting power. The bone that covered the creature's hide gave little resistance and the arc of my sword carved cleanly through a full half of its body cavity. Hitting the ground, I bled off my momentum with a forward roll and began my follow-up strike. Sliding my left hand up the blade to support the back of the naked metal, I exited the forward roll with a leap, combining the rotational force with the jump to bring the sword back up to speed. Tracing the same arc as the initial strike, my blade easily carved through the monster's opposite flank, completing the cut fully through its body, neatly bisecting it at the center. My final strike transitioned into an aerial spin with my body hanging parallel to the ground for a full turn before I shifted my mass enough to tip my rotation from the horizontal axis to the vertical, landing on my feet and bleeding off the momentum with a spinning skid across the pavement.  
  
Without the interruption from the monster I had just slain, Lung was able to finally get a secure grip around the neck and legs of the beast he was currently grappling with. With a roar and a mighty heave, he spun the beast around to slam it into the second like a bony bludgeon. The second beast was thrown away, crashing through the side of a warehouse with the sound of crushing stone. Shifting the monster into a headlock with his left arm, Lung rammed his right fist into its snarling maw. With a whump of displaced air, the fist ignited and the sound soon grew to a roar as the draconic man fired a continuous jet of fire down its gullet. After a good ten seconds of continuous fire, Lung allowed his flames to die off, heaving the smoldering husk of a corpse off his arm and onto the side of the street.  
  
An agonized scream pierced the night air as Lung turned to calmly regard the corpse of the monster I'd cut in half. He shot me a brief considering glance before turning to find the source of the scream. A butch looking girl with short blonde hair and a plastic dog mask on her face was stomping out of an alleyway, brandishing a metal pipe. With another enraged cry, she grabbed her mask and ripped it off of her face, glaring at Lung with eyes full of hate and spite.  
  
" **I'll fucking kill you!** " She screamed at the top of her lungs. To accompany her cry, a monstrous growl echoed through the street as the third and final monster stalked out of the hole it had made when Lung smashed it into the warehouse. " **You mother fucker! Kill him! Kill him!!** " Even as the giant monster began to charge him, Lung crossed his draconic arms and settled into what could pass as a disinterested posture. As the beast closed on him and he made no move to meet its charge I tensed in realization. He wasn't going to fight, not anymore. This was a test, it had to be. He had been distracted with the other monsters when I'd killed the first one so he hadn't seen my attack.  
  
In a single quick and smooth motion I sheathed my blade and with a sudden burst of speed appeared between Lung and the charging creature. Planting my right leg forward and leaning my weight onto it, I slid the left out behind me as I pulled my blade with its scabbard out from the sash around my waist. I held it at the ready in my left hand, my right hovering above the hilt as I bent my knee, lowering my center of gravity. As the beast continued its furious charge, I timed the rhythm of its lumbering gait and readied myself. As it was kicking off with its back legs, preparing the front to catch its weight and continue to propel itself forward, I made my charge. I burst forwards faster than the eye could follow and drew my blade in a simultaneous strike.  
  
In an instant I had passed, blade held out to my right at the end of its strike and as the monster's front legs hit the ground, it crumpled into the pavement like a puppet with its strings cut. It slid along the ground with its leftover momentum, bone grinding loudly against the pavement, before slowing to a stop several feet in front of Lung. Along its left flank, a red line of blood welled up along the surface of its hide, outlining the cut of my strike, clear through from mouth to rear.  
  
With another enraged war cry, the masculine girl aborted her charge towards Lung and turned to me, lifting the pipe high above her head as she charged. Even with my back turned, my instincts sparked to life, painting a picture in my mind's eye of her charge and the exact placement of her eventual overhand strike. Without turning to look, I raised my blade to catch the pipe on the flat of it and with a single flick of my wrist, tore it from her hand to sail away into the nearby alley. Without hesitating, the girl instantly transitioned from her attempted bludgeon to a wild haymaker. I stepped back with my right leg, and with a single fluid spin I avoided her blow and pivoted beside her, using the rotation to bring my sword around to strike her at the base of the skull with the pommel. She collapsed to the ground.  
  
Fifteen minutes of uncomfortable silence later, as Lung gradually reverted back to human, Oni Lee reappeared in the street next to Lung, a girl in a tattered purple and black costume with blonde hair slung over his shoulder. Jaw finally human enough to speak again, Lung turned to him.  
  
"The others?" He asked without fanfare.  
  
"Dead." Oni Lee replied simply. Lung nodded, instantly accepting Lee's words as truth and turned to regard me with a critical eye. I was facing a quarter turn away from him, head bowed slightly and regarding the two of them with my peripheral vision.  
  
"That leaves one more loose end." Lung announced in a deep, rumbling tone. His gaze drifted to the unconscious girl lying in the street at my feet. Oni Lee saw as well and reached for a knife with his free arm. Lung raised a hand to stop him. "Not you. This one is hers."  
  
My mouth went dry. This is the moment I had been dreading. I had tried to ignore the sinister suspicion I'd had, ever since the dynamic shifted from attempting to prove myself to Lung, to being actively tested by him. He wanted to know if I could kill, **would** kill for him. If I refused now, what would happen? Would I be disciplined? Maybe he would begin to threaten my dad. Lung had claimed that he would be looked after and safe so long as I was loyal to him. Would refusing to take this final step now be all it took to be declared disloyal?  
  
Could I take that chance?  
  
Blade still free of its scabbard, grasped surely in my right hand, I stepped around to stand on the fallen girl's right side, her head on the ground to my right. With a slow, deliberate motion, I brought my blade in line with her neck and held it aloft.  
  
I hesitated.  
  
Taking a deep breath in, I closed my eyes. In my imagination, I saw my dad, standing across from me on the other side of this girl. This villain. This adversary who was positioned against me by the emotionless, indifferent hands of fate. I wondered to myself if in a different life, we could have been on the same side, friends maybe. A world where we never had to fight, and I never had to make this choice. Across from me, my dad was crying, bitter tears streaming down his face as he looked on helplessly, because in spite of my indecision, he knew that he was watching the death throes of the girl that had been his precious daughter.  
  
"I'm sorry." I said aloud. To who I didn't know.  
  
I brought down my sword, and the head of a corpse rolled briefly across the pavement.  
  
With a mechanical sort of motion, I brought my sword up and pulled away a piece of cloth from where it hung at my waist, part of a stack that had never before been used. With a careful and deliberate motion, I gripped it tight on either side of my blade and drew it down the length. I'd have to clean it properly once I'd gotten home, but it was ill advised to sheathe a sword with blood still clinging to its surface. Dropping the soiled cloth, I brought my sword up in a fluid motion and calmly slid it back into the scabbard. Finally I turned to face Lung and lifted my head to meet his eyes.  
  
His lips curled up into a solemn little grin. It wasn't humorous, snide, or mocking. Instead it was full of understanding and maybe a hint of regret.  
  
"Those are good eyes." He spent another few moments simply meeting my gaze before finally he nodded and turned to walk away. "I will be in contact. Until next time, Battousai."  



	2. 1.2

1.2  
  
As the rust bucket of a gold sedan slowed to a stop in front of my house, I turned to my unwilling driver.  
  
"Thanks." I said simply with a grateful nod. The young Japanese man remained silent, just as he'd been throughout the rest of our time together today. Stoically, he kept his gaze fixed on the empty street ahead of us.  
  
As could be expected, I was still an unwelcome sight to most members of the ABB. Most of them wouldn't speak openly about me when I was within ear shot, not that they had any idea just how well I could actually hear, but unless ordered to interact with me they simply refused to acknowledge my existence. I wasn't complaining though; it wasn't like I had a burning desire to suddenly become friends with a group of gangsters. I was here out of necessity and was indifferent to their _scathing indifference_.  
  
I opened the car door to step out and my chauffer wordlessly pulled on a lever next to his seat to pop the trunk. It was a small relief, as I'd considered the possibility that he might simply drive off before I could retrieve my parcels. Getting to my feet, I slammed the door behind me and stepped around the car to collect my welcome prize.  
  
Groceries!  
  
I'd finally been paid for my first services to Lung: nearly six thousand dollars, more money than I'd ever seen before. The first thing I'd done was deposit a large portion of it into my dad's bank account. Apparently, banks didn't really care who you were when you were making a deposit, just when you were taking money out. With that, the family coffers were practically bursting and we'd be able to catch up on all of the overdue bills. The next thing I'd done, was take advantage of the unwilling driver I'd been given for the day to do some real grocery shopping.  
  
Reaching into the trunk, giddy with the sight of all the gloriously bulging plastic bags, I looped my right arm through as many of the handles as I could fit and then gathered the rest into a big bunch in my hand. I probably made a strange sight, slender girl that I was muscling all those bags in one arm so that I'd only have to make one trip, but enhanced strength had to be good for something, darn it!  
  
Slamming the trunk, I slapped it twice with my hand and called out to my driver. "I'm all set." He leaned his head partway out and called back, the first words he'd said to me all day.  
  
"Six thirty. Usual spot. Don't be late." Without further fanfare, he peeled out, burning rubber and shooting down the street at less-than-legal speeds.  
  
"Good day to you too, jackass." I muttered under my breath, making my way for the front porch.  
  
With a slightly more enthusiastic gait than normal, I made my way up the barebones ramp dad's friend Kurt had built over our front steps and dug my keys out of my pocket. Fortunately, with every bag in one arm, my other was free to unlock and open the door.  
  
"I'm home!" I called out, stepping into the house and awkwardly shuffling in a circle with all of my bags until I could close the door. I didn't get a response, but I hadn't really expected to either. Dad had been in and out of pretty serious bouts of depression since his accident and finding out about my working with the ABB had set him off into another one. I was planning on making one of his favorite meals today in the hopes of giving him some spunk back.  
  
Shuffling sideways out of the narrow entryway, arm of bags trailing behind me, I peeked into the living room. Dad was slumped on the couch, wheelchair pushed to the side a short distance away, and staring blankly at the television. The cable had been turned off months ago so we'd been limited to channels you could pick up with an antenna. With an excess of money in the bank though, we could afford to splurge a bit and get it turned back on. Maybe the prospect of having some real T.V. channels instead of mindless daytime talk shows would give dad something else to look forwards to.  
  
"We've finally got some real food again!" I exclaimed, trying to pour as much emphatic joy into my tone as possible. "I've got all the ingredients to make mom's famous meatloaf! I was thinking about making it for dinner. What do you think?" Dad didn't respond, maintaining his empty vigil over the T.V. "Well, it'll probably be ready in a couple of hours, but if you get hungry before then, let me know and I'll get some snacks ready." I stood there watching him for a few more moments, struggling to keep my smile from slipping into a worried frown, before turning to step into the kitchen.  
  
As soon as the door swung shut behind me, I carefully set my ponderous collection of bags down on the floor and let out a weary sigh. Slumping down into a chair, I reflexively ran a hand through my hair and froze when it hit the scrunchie holding my ponytail together.  
  
"Shit!" I swore in a hushed tone, ripping the fluffy green and red accessory out of my hair and glaring at it. The last thing dad needed was having my affiliation with the ABB waved around in his face all the time. I stuffed it into my pocket and stood up to busy myself with putting away the groceries.  
  
Now that the ABB had expanded to our neighborhood, their street thugs tended to be standing around corners in the area with increasing frequency. Openly wearing their colors helped me go about my day unmolested, not that their common members were much of a concern for me anymore, but getting stopped and harassed was a hassle. Most of the upper level members already knew about me: it seemed to be nearly impossible to keep the identity of a cape secret when they were the only white girl in your all-Asian-gang, but some of the lower street level people had yet to get the memo.  
  
Not that I was happy that my identity was pretty much common knowledge, but there was nothing I could do about it at this point. Openly being a cape had its uses anyway. Lung's mandate about my presence in the gang had certainly gone a long way in keeping dissenters quiet, but the fear a normal person could have towards a supernaturally gifted parahuman was not to be underestimated.  
  
After dad's accident, my motto in life had quickly become 'Make the best with what you've got' and it had been enough to get me by so far. After dropping out of school, struggling to pick up even the shittiest of jobs, and being forced to steal food on occasion, so many difficulties I'd struggled with in the past just seemed so petty now. Better to focus on the present and address problems as they reared their ugly heads rather than worry endlessly about something that I couldn't change.  
  
Groceries stowed away just about anywhere I could find the room, (I may have gone a little overboard,) I dug out some pans and mom's old recipe book. Finally, before getting started on the actual preparations, I pulled out the cheap little MP3 player I'd bought at an electronics store a few days ago and popped in one of the ear buds. Cycling through it, I found the 'language playlist' I'd put together on the library computers yesterday and hit play.  
  
Besides the audio files, I'd also taken out a few introductory textbooks on as many of the Asiatic languages as I could find. Featuring prominently amongst them were Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Vietnamese. It was probably a bit ambitious, but I had hopes for becoming at least moderately familiar with a couple of them over the course of the next few months. At the very least, I'd started to put together a notebook of useful phrases to have memorized. So far, I'd written down things like _'Someone kill the stupid white girl'_ and _'When she turns around, shoot this bitch in the head'_ among others.  
  
It was a work in progress.  
  
The next half hour passed by relatively pleasantly. Maybe it was just because it had been so long since we'd had ingredients to cook a real meal, but cooking was proving to be an oddly calming and therapeutic chore. Of course, it helped that the superhuman dexterity I'd displayed since gaining my power translated rather well to the handling of kitchen knives and potato peelers. Being able to take off just the right amount of skin without wasting any of the actual potato itself was a source of immense satisfaction to my well developed thrifty sensibilities.  
  
With the meatloaf in the oven, I left the potatoes in a pot with water on the stove, waiting to be boiled once it was closer to being meal time. After setting the timer and washing my hands, I turned my attention onto my next chore for the day.  
  
One of the braces for the legs of the kitchen table had cracked when dad slammed it with his fist, and now it leaned at an awkward angle. I had been meaning on trying to fix it sooner, but lately dad had been eating his meals on a tray table in the living room so it simply hadn't been that high of a priority. Today though, I intended to get the overdue bills squared away and having a level surface to work on would help keep me from wanting to break the table further.  
  
Making my way to the basement, I grabbed the electric drill Kurt had left after putting together the ramp, and dug around through the pile of scrap wood for something I could use to brace the table leg. Eventually, I picked a few small rectangles of wood, a few mismatched screws of various sizes, and an extension cord for the drill. It was an older one, without the rechargeable battery pack, and had been a lifesaver for helping to install the various accessibility railings around the house. My tools selected, I headed back up to the kitchen.  
  
I set the blocks of wood and the screws down on a chair and plugged the extension cord into the socket behind the fridge. Then, I sat down on the floor next to the table and set about trying to figure out where exactly I needed to add the blocks of wood to make it stable again. After nearly fifteen minutes of holding up various blocks at different angles, and then another ten trying to drill a screw through them without splitting the wood, the table was mostly fixed and I had resolved to get a few books on carpentry the next time I stopped by the library.  
  
After cleaning up the mess of sawdust I'd made on the floor and putting away my supplies, I made a quick check on the meatloaf before pulling the thick black folder with all of the family's finances in it off the top of the fridge. If I didn't leave it up there, dad would worry endlessly at it, constantly shuffling through the menagerie of bills and notices as though something might have changed since the last time he'd looked. Setting it on the table, I pulled dad's checkbook out of my back pocket, updated with a far more merciful balance after my trip to the bank earlier, and sat down to take care of business.  
  
The mortgage and utility bills were the first thing I took care of, filling out checks for the outstanding balances and even ones for the next billing cycle. I left the signature blank for dad to fill in later. The teller at the bank had told me that when I was sixteen, dad could add my name to his account and then I'd be able to sign the checks myself, but for now this system was more than good enough. Next, I wrote three checks for payments on dad's three nearly maxed out credit cards. They were only a small fraction of the overall debt, but it was a start and that's what was important. Finally, I dug out the old cable bill and pulled out my new cell phone, calling the number on the bill and starting the process of getting the service turned back on.  
  
After a phone call that took far longer than it probably should have, I managed to get the ball rolling on reactivating our cable subscription and breathed out a sigh of relief. I felt like a weight I'd been struggling with for as long as I could remember had been lifted from my shoulders. Hopefully, dad would be equally relieved. Gathering all of the papers that had been scattered over the table back together, I packed away the folder back on top of the fridge and set the checks waiting for signatures into a neat stack.  
  
With a glance at the timer on the stove, I realized it was about time I turned on the heat for the potatoes. That done, I dug out another small pot to heat up some canned corn in before digging dad's tray out of the cabinets and getting a plate and utensils ready. Most of the preparations done, now it was just a matter of waiting for the food to be ready, so I scooped up the stack of written checks, a pen, and went to check on dad.  
  
He was still in his spot on the couch, blankly watching the T.V. without really taking anything in. I bustled by in front of him, grabbing his tray table from where it was leaning against the wall nearby and setting it up over his knees. That done, I carefully sat the stack of checks down in front of him and placed the pen on top.  
  
"So," I began awkwardly, unsure of how to broach the subject and simply settling on blurting it out. "I put some money in your bank account today." He didn't react, which wasn't good, but was better than an indignant rebuttal. "There's more than enough to get us settled on the important bills for awhile with extra to spare. I actually called up the cable company to see about getting things turned back on and they said they'd send a technician over sometime next week. Finally, you'll have something other than stay-at-home mom talk shows to watch, huh?" I asked, trying to force some levity into my tone. Wordlessly, dad's gaze drifted down to the stack of checks.  
  
"Anyway," I soldiered on. "I went through the bills and wrote out checks for the big ones. You just need to sign them and I'll bring them to the mailbox when I go out later. Pretty soon we'll be able to leave the phone plugged in again." He reached out listlessly, grabbing the pen and slowly beginning to add his name to the waiting stack. "Well, dinner will be ready in a few minutes. I'll bring it in when it's done and grab the checks." Bending down, I scooped up his reusable water bottle off the couch next to him to refill and readjusted the phone from where it had sunk between the cushions.  
  
"I'll probably be going out for awhile later, but I picked up a cell phone earlier today in case you need me while I'm gone." Internally I winced, fearing that news of me getting a cell phone might be what set him off into another angry tirade. He hadn't been fond of them since mom had been killed while talking on one in the car and I was worried it might be enough to get him all riled up again. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he didn't even acknowledge it, continuing to work his way through the stack of waiting checks in silence. "I'll tape the number to the back of the handset, so it'll be there if you need anything."  
  
My piece said, I hurried back into the kitchen to wash and refill dad's water bottle and to put the finishing touches on dinner.  



	3. 1.3

1.3  
  
With the remnants of dinner put away in the fridge and dad settled in for the night, I retreated to my room to get ready for my mandatory outing.  
  
Stripping out of my normal clothes, I smiled to myself as I thought of our recent meal. Dad had complimented the meatloaf; said it tasted just like how mom used to make! He didn't say anything else for the rest of the time we were eating, but that small praise alone was enough to make the effort worth it. I'd have to look through the recipe book for more ideas.  
  
Down to just my underwear, I pulled a long black case out from its hiding spot beneath my bed and dialed in the combination to unlock it. Inside was my sword and the pieces of my costume. Eager to not be mostly naked anymore, I snapped the case open and pulled out the main portion of the outfit: a sort of black body sleeve, similar in look and texture to a pair of leggings, but made of a much thicker material so that it was more durable and didn't become see through when stretched. When I'd been given it, I'd been told that this piece alone could serve as the costume in a pinch, but I was hesitant to try. Though not even the lines of my underwear showed up through the fabric, what little dignity I had left was uncomfortable with the thought of walking around in a skintight suit.  
  
I sat down on my bed and slid the bottom portion onto my legs. Fully pulled up, the leggings stopped at my ankles, but a thick strip of fabric attached to the bottom looped underneath the soles of my feet to keep the material from riding up when taut. Standing up, I slid my arms into the sleeve portion and stretched the thick loop of material at the top over my head to rest around my neck and shoulders. Though the body sleeve preserved my modesty from the front and sides, the back was left conspicuously open and bare down to the top of my waist. When I asked about it, the nice old Chinese lady that was fitting me told me it was necessary to allow ease in putting the outfit on, but a part of me was certain it was a purely cosmetic window.  
  
Finally, I stretched the material of the arms out to their full length. The sleeves stopped at my wrists but a thin triangular strip of cloth continued down the back of my hand. It had a loop at the end that slid over my middle finger, also to keep the material from bunching up.  
  
I stepped over in front of my mirror to give myself a quick once over. My working lifestyle and poor diet the last few months meant that I had a much leaner build than before I'd dropped out of school but it had been enhanced by real, noticeable muscle since I'd gotten my powers. The way the fabric pulled just taught enough to highlight the musculature of my long arms, legs, and smooth midsection made me self conscious of creases and bunches in the otherwise uniform material. After quickly smoothing out the ones I could find, I returned to the case to collect the rest of my costume.  
  
Setting aside the spares of the body sleeve, I pulled out the light and billowy black fabric of the outer pants and shirt. The material of these was thin and silky, meant less for keeping out the elements and more for breaking up the contours of my silhouette. They sat very loosely on my frame and slid on easily. A strip of the cloth that ran around the waist of the pants needed to be cinched up tightly to prevent them from falling down. The shirt simply sat on my shoulders, the baggy sleeves stopping at my fingertips.  
  
Reaching into the case again, I pulled out another folded bunch of black fabric, my sash. It was very long and wide, meant to wrap around my waist multiple times and keep the midsection of the shirt from flapping around needlessly. Once tied, It was even useful for storing small items like my phone and held the scabbard of my sword to my hip when it wasn't in my hand. There was probably some fancy traditional way of tying it, but after wrapping it as many times as I could I simply double knotted it and tucked the rest into the back.  
  
The final fabric piece of the costume was my mask and hood. The mask was nothing more than a stretchy cylindrical piece of material, like my bodysuit but thinner. It pulled on over my head and sat bunched around my neck until I pulled it up to conceal the lower half of my face. The 'hood' was just another piece of loose fabric sewed on to the back of the mask. With the mask on, I could pull it up over the top of my head to hide my hair and even shadow the top of my face. It tended to blow around a bit, and if I still needed to wear glasses it would probably have been a nightmare, but as it was it functioned well enough to mask my distinctive curls.  
  
The stupid thing always took me a few tries to pull on correctly and this time was no different. Once I successfully had it around my neck, I fixed my hair, pulling it up into a ponytail with a simple black elastic and moved to grab the final pieces of my costume.  
  
This part always made me a bit nervous, which said nothing of how I felt actually wearing them.  
  
After watching me spar with a few of his better trained unpowered flunkies, Lung had ordered a few pieces of gear specially sized for me. They were made of carbon fiber, special tinker polymers and alloys, and more than likely the lost hopes and dreams of small children. Needless to say, they probably cost a small fortune.  
  
When I'd nervously brought up the matter of price, Lung told me to consider it _'Protecting an investment'_ and I had no misgivings about what that really meant. He intended to get his money's worth from me and I was **not** a short-term investment.  
  
No pressure right?  
  
The first pieces of equipment were a pair of sleek black vambraces. They fit around my forearms from just below my elbows down to my wrists, with an extra flexible bit that partially protected the back of my hand.  
  
They also had an ostentatious eastern-style dragon decaled onto the outside in gleaming gold.  
  
Sliding my baggy sleeve up to just over my wrist, I pulled it taut against my forearm and then carefully wound it up until there was no extra material. That done, I slid the first vambrace into place and carefully clamped it into position over the fabric. They both had a full length clasping mechanism like what you might find on a watch or bracelet. It had two extra pieces of material connected to each other and the main body by flexible joints that folded together to lay flat on the inside of my forearm when closed. This clasp and the inner padding let the armor fit snugly to my arm while almost completely hiding the seam.  
  
I quickly repeated the process with my other arm and moved on to my feet.  
  
There was a problem with moving at the kind of speeds I was capable of. Mainly, unless I went barefoot any normal pair of shoes I wore would be quickly destroyed by the unforgiving hand of friction. The soles of the sneakers I'd been wearing when Lung had me demonstrate my abilities had quickly melted into rubbery goop. Fortunately, the enhancements to my body let me handle the various rigors of moving at extremely high speeds so I could go without shoes when necessary, but I would still be limited in my ability to move around an urban landscape without more serious accommodations.  
  
Once again, Lung's contacts in trading tinkertech had delivered in spades.  
  
What I'd gotten were sort of like a pair of boots. They had a perfectly fitting shoe portion that was made of material resistant to temperatures I'd likely never encounter unless I made a habit of standing in Lung's fire. The shoe part was connected to a greave by some sort of weird armored omnidirectional joint. I didn't know how it worked but it left me with the full flexibility I needed to perform my outlandish feats of agility. The greaves were in pretty much the exact same style as the vambraces, snug-lock-clasp and all, and protected my entire shin and calf up to my knee. They even had a flexible portion that jutted out from the top to protect my kneecap.  
  
Frankly, they were absolutely amazing, and I was terrified that I'd somehow manage to break them by the end of the month.  
  
Carefully, I wrapped the extra material of my pants around my legs, much like I'd done with my sleeves before. With that done, I held the fabric in place while I pulled out the first boot and smoothly slid my leg inside. When my foot was snugly in place in the shoe portion, I pulled my hand out and clamped the upper portion together. After repeating the process with the other leg, I stood up and took a few steps to make sure they were fitting correctly before turning back to the case for the final and most important item.  
  
My sword.  
  
It was a tinker forged Japanese katana and like the rest of my costume, the scabbard and hilt were black. The scabbard was some sort of carbon fiber and tinkertech made resin on the outside, flexible and durable enough for me to use it as a weapon in its own right. The inside was wood, or something made to look and feel like wood. The hilt was all black wrappings and accents around a solid core of metal, the only splash of color being a dragon decaled onto the black pommel in gold. The guard and blade were made of metal the color of dark polished steel, and I'd been told that they were composed of a tinkertech alloy of considerable strength and durability. So far, it had held up perfectly to the inhuman forces I'd put it through and its edge had not dulled in the slightest even when carving through dense monstrous bone and metal.  
  
I knelt down in front of it, reverently reaching out and ready to pull it from its foamy impression in the case, before hesitating. There was something I'd noticed about myself that made me more than a little nervous.  
  
Having a sword at my side felt **good**. More than good, it felt natural: as though carrying a sword was supposed to be my default state. Lately, whenever I was stressed my left hand automatically drifted to my waist, seeking the reassuring presence of a blade waiting to be drawn. I'd developed habits and ticks around it, like tapping out impatient rhythms on the pommel and grip, and clenching the scabbard when my temper started to rise.  
  
If having a blade felt so natural to me now, what would happen the more I drew it? The more I used it? Would I reach the point where drawing a weapon became my first response to a situation? Would attacking another person with the intent to harm or kill become second nature? Could it even be called second nature when I seemed to be so skilled at it already?  
  
I clamped down on my thoughts and pulled the elegant blade from its resting place. With an easy familiarity I slid the scabbard into the folds of my sash and calmly thumbed the hilt. With its reassuring presence at my side, I forced my worried thoughts to rest.  
  
_Make the best with what you've got, right?_  
  
This sword was the reason that dad and I still lived in a warm house with a roof to keep us dry. This sword was the reason that tonight we'd been able to eat mom's meatloaf again for the first time in years. This sword was the reason that I could face dad and smile, because with it I knew that I could keep him safe and comfortable.  
  
Why worry about the me of the future when I still had to face the problems of today?   
  
What happens will happen, what will be will be. I can't stop the future from coming, but I can sure as hell fight to make certain that we'll see it when it's here.  
  
I closed the case, mixing up the combination dial and then sliding it back underneath my bed. Silently, I rose to my feet and padded over to my desk, scooping my new cell phone off of it and tucking it into the back of my sash. Then, I made my way to the door and opened it just a crack. As I stood there, I closed my eyes and focused on the sounds of the house.  
  
It was a trick I'd picked up when I was still trying to hide my going out at night from dad. If I concentrated on just my sense of hearing, I could push my ability to gather phonic information to new extremes. Like this, it was easy to make out the sounds of the T.V. downstairs, dad's heart beat, breathing, and at the most extreme even the minute sounds human muscles made when they strained, contracted, and twitched.  
  
Ultimately, this let me draw a sort of mental picture using the acoustics of the house. From my spot behind my door, I could tell with certainty that dad was still sitting on the couch, out of line of sight from the back door, which is exactly what I wanted. I may not have needed to sneak out anymore, but I also didn't want dad to see me in my costume again, not unless it was absolutely necessary.  
  
Slipping out of my room, I pulled the door shut behind me and ghosted my way down the stairs. Half way down, I realized I wasn't making any sound and adjusted, letting my feet fall just heavily enough that dad would be able to hear me on the staircase. When I hit the bottom, I turned towards the back door and called over my shoulder.  
  
"I'm heading out now dad! Remember, I taped my cell number to the back of the phone so if you need anything you can call me. If I'm not back before you're in bed, good night!"  
  
Without waiting for a response I pulled up my mask to cover my face up to the bridge of my nose and slipped out the back door. I closed it just heavily enough that dad could hear I was gone and pulled my hood up over my ponytail. Finally, I made a quick check of the area to make sure I was still mostly hidden by the back alcove, before picking out one of the telephone poles on the next street over and launching myself straight towards it.  
  
Though I had no problem perceiving the world around me at high speeds, apparently it was next to impossible for the normal human eye to keep track of me when I cut loose. I figured so long as I left the house in a hurry I wouldn't have to worry too much about people spotting me.  
  
Rapidly closing on my chosen pole, I shifted my center of gravity enough to pivot slightly in the air and then pulled my knees to my chest. At these speeds I couldn't just hit the pole dead on; I would end up damaging it if I did. Instead I was aiming to skim the side of it, just enough for me to control my path and add more speed if needed.  
  
As I passed beside it I let my left foot reach out, the big toe of my boot just barely scratching the side. It was enough for me to shift my flight path by a few degrees and put me in position for a kickoff. Adequately pivoted I kicked out with my right foot, planting it into the back of the pole and pushing off.  
  
My ride was waiting for me six blocks to the east. I still wasn't sure what the point in being picked up was. I could cross a block in under a second and could definitely get to Lung's lair for the day faster than any car, but still they insisted on it. Maybe it was some sort of power play, or maybe it was just a simple task to keep someone busy. Lung seemed to try to keep most of his people occupied with an objective or task, even if it was as simple as 'watch this location.' I wouldn't be surprised if he made people drive me around just to give them something specific to do.  
  
It only took me four 'steps' to come within a block of my ride.  
  
From my latest kickoff point at the top of a billboard, I could see the same rusty golden sedan from earlier, parked by the curb in the middle of an empty street. Between me and it was the wide and flat rooftop of some sort of commercial building taking up a good portion of the block. I aimed for it, needing the space to bleed off some speed if I was going to stop without damaging anything.  
  
My leaping arc took me down right at the start of the rooftop. I landed rather lightly, most of my momentum horizontal rather than vertical, and immediately allowed my leading left leg to buckle, planting my knee-guard into the rooftop. Lowering my center of gravity, I leaned back, forcing more of my left greave into contact with the paved black tar of the rooftop and skidding along it with a sound like hard plastic on blacktop. It did a respectable job decelerating me, but for the speed I was traveling at the roof was too short.  
  
Shifting my back foot placement, I rose from my knee into a full spin, rotating two and a quarter times before throwing myself into a perfectly timed back flip. Reaching my hands out beyond my head, I easily caught on to the short wall that ran around the edge of the roof, my spine bending in a far more flexible arc than I ever would have been able to manage before receiving my powers. As my center of gravity passed over the wall, the points at which I gripped it suddenly took the full force of my flight. I maintained my hold just long enough to slow myself a bit more but not enough that the thin concrete would fail to hold together.  
  
Letting go, the contact with the wall had changed my flight path just enough to point me directly at the sidewalk leading up to the front door of the building. Completing the flip, I hit the concrete with my feet, bending my knees to easily absorb the impact before once again planting the full length of my boot against the ground.  
  
With my expertly calculated maneuver, most of my momentum had been bled off and the sound of my boots grinding on tar and concrete had attracted the attention of my driver. Through the lens of my enhanced senses, I saw him begin to react in slow motion, pausing mid drag of a cigarette to slowly turn his head towards the open passenger window of the car.  
  
I decided to have some fun.  
  
Shifting my center of gravity forwards, I rose from my knees to my feet and sharply dug the edge of my boots into the ground. The sudden increase in friction was enough to send me into a full pinwheel. I pulled my knees to my chest, briefly accelerating the rate at which I spun through the air, only to throw them back out to full length just as my legs were lining up with the window of the car. I aimed for the vehicle's frame, not wanting to damage it too much, and when my feet made contact I let my knees bend with the force, controlling the amount applied so that I didn't stop all at once.  
  
When I had slowed enough, I hooked one of my feet in through the window and pressed up with the side of my boot against the top of the frame, guiding myself into the car as I pulled my other foot down and free. Finally, with my left hand I pulled my sword out from my sash, pressing it flat against my chest so it wouldn't get in the way and reached down with my right hand, planting it on the cars frame where my feet had been moments before. With that point of contact, I bled off the rest of my momentum and dropped fluidly into the car's passenger seat as the vehicle rocked sharply to the side.  
  
My chauffer was not prepared for my arrival.  
  
"What the hoo **waaAAAH** , Jesus **fuck** girl!" He exclaimed, flinching back into the driver side door as his lit cigarette dropped from his mouth. "Can't you get into a **fucking** car like a normal human **fucking** be- **Ow!** Son-of-a-" He slapped at his lap, desperately scooping the burning cigarette out of it and flinging it out the open window.  
  
I turned away from him so that he couldn't see the vindictive smirk I was wearing through my mask. Grabbing my seatbelt, I pulled it over my shoulder and clicked it into place as I tucked my sword between my legs. Glancing down at the radio clock I noted the time.  
  
_Six twenty four: made it with time to spare you jerk!_  
  



	4. 1.4

1.4  
  
As my driver shifted into park and I removed my seatbelt, I took a moment to center myself. I couldn't afford to be Taylor Hebert anymore; I needed to shift mental gears. Lung had no need for some wimpy teenage girl. He didn't force me to join his gang because I was _Taylor_ , he wanted my power and what I could do with it. He wanted an enforcer: someone who could show a confident face to his street thugs while bowing her head to him, someone who could be decisive and give orders to the normal members while being obedient and doing as she was told. Someone who could fight and _win_ as required.  
  
He needed **Battousai**.  
  
Taking a deep breath and calmly blowing it back out, I pulled my sword up from between my legs and pushed open the car door. Stepping out into the street, I shut the door behind me and took a moment to survey the area.  
  
Lung had chosen an old tenement area in the Docks as this week's base of operations. It wasn't the most decrepit part of the Docks I'd ever seen, but it wasn't far off. Crumbling stone facades and rusted out fire escapes were the backdrop of this setting: multistory barriers of gloomy grays, tans, and browns that loomed high overhead. They seemed to press in on you with a feeling of claustrophobic entrapment, depressing in the self evident truth that most would never escape the squalor to reach greener pastures.  
  
In spite of this, the street between these imprisoning residential walls was alive. Groups of people gathered on stoops and in doorways, filling the space with the buzz of conversation and sudden interruptions of jarring laughter. One group was gathered around a radio while a girl in thick, bright makeup sang along to the upbeat tune with a sort of self mocking enthusiasm. A group of teenage boys, prominently wearing red and green, gathered on one side of the street as they took turns throwing a tennis ball into a group of younger kids on the other side. The kids seemed to be enjoying the game, shrieking excitedly as they tried to dodge the grimy yellow ball and laughing and jeering at their friends who'd gotten hit.  
  
Of course, not everyone was in good spirits. An older group, probably parents of some of the playing children, had gathered together to speak in hushed tones as they watched the kids with a concerned intensity. More than once, a window opened so that a worried mother could call her son back inside. There were also younger groups: teens wearing red and green bandanas and shirts, loosely gathered together in huddles of nervous silence; individuals who fidgeted with a nervous energy and glanced repeatedly at the groups wearing ABB colors, a sort of furtive desire evident in their posture.  
  
Finally, there was a very distinctive group, one that the others went out of their way to avoid so much as looking at, as though doing so would draw their attention. They too were gathered around a stoop, but there was no upbeat conversation or laughter, no sense of friendship or air of playfulness. These men and women held themselves with a steady confidence and a sense of authority. They managed to seem tense and ready, while also being at ease with their surroundings, unconcerned.  
  
It was their mannerisms that Battousai styled herself around, and as I slid my sheathed sword back into the sash around my waist, I imagined myself similarly sliding into my role.  
  
When I moved, it drew their attention and I could _see_ the wave of tension pass through the group, forcing them to focus on me. My posture was confident, my back straight and my head level as I stared unflinchingly ahead. I walked with a sense of grace that I'd never known before receiving my power: each step deliberate but natural, every dip and sway of my hips and shoulders smooth and purposeful. My balance was perfect, my control of my body instinctual, **dangerous.**  
  
As I stepped out of the street and onto the curb closest to them, their group parted, clearing a path for me to the door of the building they were gathered around. This was the natural order here, the dichotomy between human and _parahuman_. It didn't matter that I was new to the gang. It didn't matter that I was white, or skinny, or a girl of only fifteen. What mattered was that I had _power_ and that if I used it, they wouldn't be able to stop me.  
  
This was Lung's precedent, his order, his **rule**. It was the knowledge of power, the promise of its use, and the fear of its direction. He wanted his power to be known, the power of his lieutenants to be known, because knowledge was a better motivator than uncertainty.  
  
Still, I wasn't quite used to my new status in the pecking order. I couldn't help but wonder how much of their consideration for me was actually because of _me_ and not because of Lung. Knowledge of power was only as good as your willingness or ability to use it. I wasn't really sure what would happen if one day I hypothetically found myself forced to _discipline_ someone. Being told to do it by Lung would be one thing, but taking the initiative to do it myself would be another. From what I'd seen, I didn't honestly think Lung himself would disapprove, but that didn't mean that there wouldn't be dissension in the ranks. After all, these people weren't harmless. Most of them had visible guns, a good number of them had probably killed before, and...  
  
And that applied to me now too, didn't it?  
  
I grimaced, and quickly hid it with an acknowledging nod to the group as I started up the short set of stairs that led into the building. I couldn't afford to think like that right now. That was a _Taylor_ thought and at the moment I was Battousai. Unconsciously, my left hand drifted to the hilt of my sword as I forced my expression to smooth out. Recomposed, I pushed open the flimsy feeling front door and stepped into the building.  
  
I entered into a sort of dim and grimy foyer. Most of the space was taken up by a bare wooden staircase that disappeared up into the deeper gloom of the floor above. Its handrail was missing most of the little wooden struts meant to support it and just by looking at the footworn steps I could already hear it creaking in my imagination. At the base of the stairwell, a man with a rather prominent scar across the left side of his face sat in a dinky little folding chair with a shotgun laid across his lap. Chest puffed out with his arms crossed imperiously, he did his best to look imposing, but the effect was spoiled when he quickly looked down and turned away when I met his eyes.  
  
Sparing him a bit of pride, I quickly turned my attention to my right where a cardboard box sat on the floor, loosely filled with cheap one-time-use cell phones. Behind it, a dry erase board sat propped up against the wall. A grid had been drawn in permanent marker on it and each box was labeled with a letter of the alphabet and a phone number. Some of them were also filled with names, messily scrawled in any combination of the English alphabet, the Korean alphabet, and well, the others that all seemed similar enough to Chinese that it was still next to impossible for me to tell the difference.  
  
I stepped up to the box and stooped down next to it, careful so that my knees wouldn't actually touch the filthy floor and soak up who-knows-what. Reaching into it, I plucked out one of the random phones, slid the plastic back off, and popped out the battery. Underneath, an uppercase G was scrawled onto the inside of the phone in thick marker. The designation of my burner phone confirmed, I snapped the battery back inside, closed the phone up, and powered it on before scooping the whiteboard up from its resting place. A dry erase marker dangled from a string taped to the side of it and I used it to carefully pen _Battousai_ into the G box.  
  
Lung, Oni Lee, and Bakuda each had the number to my personal cell just in case they needed to demand my service at a moment's notice, but I figured it was a good idea to take one of the throw away phones too for more general communications.  
  
Phone collected, I slid it into the back of my sash next to my personal phone and rose back to my feet. Turning, I caught the front door sentinel watching me out of the corner of his eye an instant before he looked away. I stared back at him silently for a moment before purposefully clearing my throat. He answered me in thickly accented English, resolutely staring at a spot on the floor somewhere to his right.  
  
"Third floor." And with that, our brief interaction came to an end.  
  
I did my best to hurry up the groaning steps without making too much noise: a nearly impossible task made easier by my inhuman agility, and quickly reached the landing of the third floor. Here, two men leaned against the wall on either side of a white door stained cigarette-smoke-yellow, beyond which I could hear the sound of conversation. They glanced at me briefly as I approached but otherwise did their best not to acknowledge my existence. I walked straight past them and opened the door without stopping to knock, stepping into the gloomy little apartment as confidently as I could and closing the door behind me.  
  
"...and we will see how interested she is in playing word games after a week with nothing new to look at but the coming of her meals and the shape of her shits." Lung's deep, rumbling voice transitioned from what I thought might have been Japanese into an accented but clear English so smoothly that I almost missed the change. The one woman and four men that he was speaking to, however, certainly didn't. All five of them turned to glance over at me by the front door before quickly snapping their attention back to Lung.  
  
On most occasions that Lung was speaking to a group, he often switched between a few different languages, depending on who he was speaking to and what they were proficient with. That seemed to have changed a bit though, starting from around the time he'd ordered me to start showing my face at more meetings. Whenever I was around, Lung tried to speak primarily in English (barring, of course, with those few people who couldn't speak English at all yet,) even when the people he was talking to spoke back to him in another language. When I'd first noticed it, I thought that he was doing it for my benefit, so that I'd be aware of what was going on with the ABB and its territory. Now, I had something of a different impression.  
  
He wasn't doing it for my benefit, at least, not exactly. Lung wasn't the type of person who'd make such a big concession for one person, if for anyone at all. If there was something I absolutely needed to know, he'd just tell me that directly. No, what he was doing was forcing the rest of his subordinates to acknowledge my presence, my existence.  
  
He must have noticed the way they were acting around me: pretending that I wasn't there, purposely speaking in a language that I didn't understand whenever I was around, even though they'd been talking naturally in English moments before I'd arrived. He'd noticed it, noticed a _problem_ and was now addressing it.  
  
Again, I didn't think that he was doing it for my benefit. I imagined that if I started having problems in my performance because of their behavior, Lung would expect me to find some way to address it myself. He would never step in to solve my issues for me. What he was doing was addressing a problem in his _organization._ Lung had announced that I would be joining as one of his parahuman lieutenants and that should have been the end of it. He **expected** his word to be all that was necessary to put people in line. That it wasn't was not alright, and Lung was delivering a warning.  
  
When he switched to English, even as others continued to speak in Chinese, or Japanese, or Korean, he was saying: 'Yes, I have noticed what you're doing and it **will** change.' Lung only gave warnings on a given topic _once_ before there were consequences. Frankly, I found myself hoping they got the message sooner rather than later, if not for the good of my conscience, then for the sake of convenience.  
  
This group seemed to understand and they continued their discussion in English: reporting to Lung on various areas they managed and the sorts of problems they'd encountered.  
  
I only gave it half an ear as I moved to join them; it wasn't immediately relevant to me and I wasn't here so that I could participate in the conversation. Instead, I  stood at attention off to the side, half way between Lung's position on a couch to my left and the people he was speaking to on my right. It was the same general position he'd put me in the first time I'd shown up to one of these meetings, and I'd made a conscious effort to replicate it every time thereafter.  
  
I'd decided that it was probably another sort of power play, this one directed more towards the people who came to speak with him than at me. I was a parahuman, a dangerous combatant, **muscle**. I wasn't standing directly at his side so I didn't give the impression of being highly trusted and invaluable like Oni Lee when he was around. I was just a silent, present sentinel to the interaction. I stood between Lung and his audience, somewhat intrusively on the edge of their peripheral vision. It was another reminder that I was here and ready to be used when I was needed.  
  
Of course, I could just have been over thinking things, but it seemed to make enough sense to be plausible.  
  
The meeting carried on rather uneventfully for awhile. Ten minutes or so after I arrived, a few more participants showed up and took their place to my right. Once or twice, someone was dismissed to get back to other duties they needed to attend to. Eventually, Lung himself lapsed back into his usual habit of switching languages as the mood took him and I fully lost track of the flow of the discussion, spacing out on my own. It wasn't until something very new happened to me that I was snapped back to reality.  
  
My cell phone rang.  
  
Luckily, I'd remembered to turn off the sound so it didn't obnoxiously intrude into the conversation. Instead, I managed to do that myself when I almost violently flinched when it started vibrating against my tailbone.  
  
"Shit." I swore quietly to myself, fumbling with the back of my sash as just about every head in the room turned to look at me. I probably should have been more worried about interrupting them, but I'd already fully shifted mental gears back from Battousai to Taylor and all I could think in my panic was 'something must have happened to dad.'  
  
Finally getting the phone free from the folded cloth, I whipped it out in front of myself and checked the caller ID. I was brought up short when instead of 'Home,' the display read 'Contact 03.' That was the name I'd entered Bakuda's information under, not wanting to use her actual cape name in case someone unaffiliated with the ABB got a hold of my phone. Flabbergasted, I turned stupidly to Lung and found him staring at me, a question obvious in the set of his brow.  
  
"Uh, it's Bakuda." I said, shining paragon of the spoken tongue that I was. Lung continued staring at me for a moment before replying.  
  
"Answer it." I winced at his nearly dumbfounded tone.  
  
"Ah, right." Hitting the call button, I brought the phone to my ear. "Hello?"  
  
_"Give the phone to Lung."_ Bakuda demanded without preamble. _"I know you're there paying face time."_ I turned to Lung and pulled the phone away from my head. Before I could speak, he gestured me over. Awkwardly, I crossed the room in three quick steps and placed the phone in his waiting hand. He brought it to his ear and turned to stare at his still assembled audience, silencing the whispers that had started.  
  
"What?" He questioned in a demanding tone.  
  
_"Did you torch a circle jerk of Nazis?"_ Even without my enhanced senses, I probably could have easily made out Bakuda's shrill voice in the now silent room. Unperturbed, or at least forcing himself to look that way, Lung replied.  
  
"No."  
  
_"Well, if you didn't, then someone is going through an awful lot of trouble to make it_ look _like you did."_ Now Lung reacted, eyebrows drawing together into a suspicious glower.  
  
"Explain."  
  
_"My guy in the BBPD just heard about a report coming in from Bay Memorial Hospital 'bout a veritable truckload of skinheads coming in covered in burns, skin melting off and shit. Four dead, three in no shape to talk about what happened. Apparently, there was some sort of fire in the old Burns steel mill, ironic, but it wasn't just fire. One of the outside walls got smashed down, metal siding torn up, machinery melted down to slag. I mean, it's not your MO to trash a single building and disappear, but do you think the Retarded Reich is gonna give a shit about that?"_  
  
There was a pause as Lung seemed to consider before responding.  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
_"Lexington workshop, why?"_  
  
"Take what supplies you need and establish a new workshop in the train yard. You found a suitable location there, yes?"  
  
_"I mean, yeah, but it's trashed with industrial sized problems. I need more guys."_  
  
"You have what you need."  
  
_"Fuck off with that! How do you expect me to keep moving my operation when you leave me with your whiny sloppy seconds!?"_  
  
"Improvise." Lung growled before promptly ending the call.  
  
Standing and turning to me, he held out my phone. I reached to take it, but when I tried to pull it away he maintained his grip. I glanced up at him and met his eyes. He held my gaze for several seconds before speaking.  
  
"Battousai, you're going out tonight."  
  
With those five words, I felt 'Taylor' slip away, back into the background of my mind. My left hand drifted down to grip the top of my scabbard and I pulled my phone away from Lung, slipping it back into my sash. Resolutely meeting his eyes, Battousai answered.  
  
"Where do I go?"  



	5. 1.5

1.5  
  
"Pull into that alley on the right," I commanded my driver, a squat girl with short black hair and nervously bitten nails. She flinched, my voice cutting into the tense, silent atmosphere with unexpected authority, and wordlessly did as she was told. As the SUV slowed to a stop, I continued thumbing through a map of the area that I'd pulled up on a smart phone requisitioned from someone in the back seat.  
  
The part of the Docks we were in was an old commercial strip, just a mile or two southwest of my own neighborhood. It was closer to the Downtown area than a good ninety percent of the rest of the Docks, which might have been why it still had a few straggling businesses able to pay their leases. Unfortunately, that also made it a prime target for the gangs as they ravenously searched for even the smallest scraps of wealth to sink their teeth into. The area was effectively a border, a no man's land, between territories claimed by the ABB and the Empire 88, the ABB's, well, _our_ primary competitor.  
  
The Empire were a gang of white supremacists, proudly sporting all sorts of Nazi iconography and spouting Aryan rhetoric. They were also one of the single most powerful entities in Brockton Bay, able to field over a dozen capes on any given occasion, more than even the Protectorate team in the area, and possessing an expansive roster of unpowered gangers.  
  
I guess it was sort of unfortunately understandable that so many would get sucked into their propaganda in a languishing city like Brockton Bay. When your world was collapsing around you and it seemed like everyone else was out to get you, it was sickeningly easy to become enraptured with the first cause that promised to have _your_ best interests at heart. So many had grasped at their bullshit like a life preserver in a stormy sea, and then once they'd been pulled to calmer waters the things they had to do to stay there didn't seem quite so bad.  
  
In a way, I felt that Lung's recruitment technique was far more honest than theirs. He didn't use your misfortunes to brainwash you or sell you on some cultish agenda. He was upfront: direct. You did what he said because **Lung told you to**. You got to keep your fear, and at the end of the day it was still there, not used to twist your beliefs into something else.  
  
I pushed away those thoughts so that I wouldn't call myself out on my own bullshit.  
  
It was time to shore up the trenches.  
  
Thinking I had a pretty good idea of the area, I turned in the passenger seat and held the phone out to the small crowd in the back. They were a younger group, mostly nerves and false bravado, save for one older guy with greasy hair who'd probably done something to find himself on chaperone duty. Caught up in their own internal dilemmas, most didn't notice me waving the bright phone around in their faces.  
  
"Hey!" I called out sharply, feeling a bit badly as a few visibly flinched. Hurriedly, a boy with a pierced lip and spiked hair in the second row of seating reached up to grab the phone. "Thanks," I said, meeting his eyes as he took it. He gave me a little nod before sinking back into the upholstery. Fighting down a sigh, I decided to get right to business.  
  
"Alright, listen up. Whatever else might be going on, _technically_ we're here on protection detail. We're not looking to start a street brawl, so you guys need to stay here and try not to draw too much attention. If something starts to happen and I need you, I'll call and tell you what to do. Got it?" I was answered with a couple of half hearted nods and a quiet yes. " _Got it?"_ I pressed.   
  
"Yeah," was the general mumbled chorus. It would have to do.  
  
"Does anyone have a lettered phone?" I asked. It was the older guy who spoke up.  
  
"Yeah," he replied in a clipped tone while absently staring out the window.  
  
"What letter is it?" I pressed, ignoring his attitude. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out one of the disposable phones, sarcastically waving it around.  
  
"M~," he drew the sound out, before casually flipping the phone to the teen next to him. The boy fumbled to catch it, then fearfully glanced back and forth between me and the older man.  
  
_'Don't make me do this,'_ I internally sighed. Outwardly, I fished my own burner phone out of my sash and held it up for everyone to see. "I've got G. If something happens or you run into some trouble, call me and I'll be here to help you out. Any questions?"  
  
"Yeah, Miss _Samurai_ or whatever the fuck you are. Can we turn on the radio, or would that be _blowing our cover?_ "  
  
I couldn't hold in the sigh this time, a short huff through my nose. Lung expected his parahuman lieutenants to be respected, feared. This jackass was setting a bad example for the rest of the 'new blood.' What was expected of me aside, if they imitated his tough guy act to Oni Lee or fucking _Bakuda_ (I didn't count Lung as a plausible option,) they'd be in for an awakening far worse than rude.  
  
Grabbing my sword from between my legs, I flicked it up and flipped the base of the scabbard to be pointed back into the car. With a quick move, I thrust it back straight into the base of the man's neck right above his sternum, and pushed. He was forced back in his seat with an audible choking sound and reflexively reached up with both hands to pull the scabbard away. Even with the poor leverage of gripping the far end, I was more than strong enough to hold the sword steady against his frantic struggles. Finally, with an icy glare I met his eyes. He froze instantly.  
  
I remained silent for a moment. When I did reply, I spoke in a calm, quiet, and smooth tone, the same way my mother used to when she'd finally lost her temper.  
  
"As long as you keep the volume down." After holding him back for a moment longer, I suddenly pulled my sword away. He lurched forward, gasping sharply before breaking down into a fit of coughing. Glancing to the rest of the car's occupants, I noted that they all seemed suitably cowed and decided to escape. Pushing open the door, I calmly stepped out and without another word, shut it behind me.  
  
I walked quickly down the alley, back onto the street we'd pulled off of, and took an immediate right. About halfway down the block, I could see a burly looking man sitting on a stool on the sidewalk. He seemed bored, fiddling with a flashlight and flashing it on and off at the ground. Since he wasn't paying attention anyway, I figured it probably wouldn't startle him too much if I quickened my trip a bit, and with a brief burst of speed I closed the distance to within a dozen feet. Taking a few quick steps to slow down, I transitioned into my confident 'Battousai walk' and approached him.  
  
Hearing me coming, he looked up. Immediately, I saw his entire body go tense. He sucked in a sharp gasp and reflexively his right hand shot towards his waist. Time seemed to slow down to my senses as my eyes snapped down to his side. On the outside of his belt, he was openly wearing a pistol in a holster. It was something I probably should have expected, given the area.  
  
I pushed off from my position and crossed the remaining distance between us in a single, near instantaneous step. I whipped my still sheathed sword up and around, realizing that I'd stupidly kept it ready in my left hand and must have looked pretty threatening, and let it gently come to rest on the man's right shoulder next to his neck. He froze and I silently met his eyes.  
  
"Uh, s-sorry. I-" He stuttered out, slowly raising his hands into the air, palms facing towards me. "Sorry." I felt badly for him and tried to hide my grimace. It hadn't been my intention to scare him. Slowly, I pulled my sword back and slid it into my sash.  
  
"Is this the 'Heat' nightclub?" I asked, deciding to get right to the point. The man swallowed thickly and gave me a little nod.  
  
"Yes. Uh, sorry. Wh-ho are you?"  
  
"I'm Lung making good on his word," I replied, trying to sound suitably 'gangsterish.' The man blinked at me, looking confused. He opened his mouth to reply but stalled, silently mouthing unformed words. I tried to _will_ myself not to blush as I dug my own grave a bit deeper. "It seems you've been having some trouble with the Empire."  
  
_Take the hint. Please take the hint._  
  
Fortunately, his face lit up in understanding.  
  
"Oh. Oh! The- You mean the protection money!" I nodded even as internally I tried to discover the secret to blocking out my own memories in an effort to save myself from years of minor self-reflected embarrassment. "Uh, if you'll give me a second, I can go and get the owner. He's the one in charge of that kind of stuff. I guess." As he spoke, he pointed to his left towards the door he was sitting near. I nodded again and he slowly rose to his feet, as though he was being watched by a wild animal and didn't want to make any sudden movements. "Then I'll... be right back."  
  
As he opened the door, the slight, ambient throbbing of the club's music temporarily surged to a steady roar and with a final glance back at me, he disappeared into the building. I sighed and stepped back to get a look at the place.  
  
It looked relatively normal, though maybe a bit too well kept for the standards of the Docks. The outer brick facade joined with other buildings on either side, broken up by two large metal frames that at one time must have held display windows on either side of the door. The windows had been replaced with large sheets of what was probably wood, covered with a black, vinyl paper. On top of them, small neon light fixtures had been bolted down: an open sign, and two little wavy tubes of red and orange along the bottom of each window, probably meant to represent fire. Along the bottom of the frame, I was able to spot little shards of glass: evidence of what was most likely prior vandalism. I couldn't help but wonder whether or not it was worth it to keep replacing the bulbs.  
  
Thinking of vandalism, I turned to the left and stared off down the street into what was Empire territory. I didn't know what I expected to see: maybe a group of violent thugs working their way down towards me. Instead, the scene that greeted me was rather mundane: the headlights and taillights of cars, coming and going in the distance; a few groups of night goers, walking together in huddles for relative safety as they made their way to their destinations for the evening.  
  
I snorted to myself; maybe I was a bit pessimistic.  
  
As the club's music surged again, signaling the opening of the front door, I turned and got my first look at the owner. I felt a bit bad about profiling him on sight, but my first thought was: 'I think I know why the Empire's goons have been giving him a hard time.'  
  
The man, who couldn't have been older than a young thirty, was for lack of a better word, a bit flamboyant looking. His dark hair had been styled into what I could only think of as a 'swoop' from the left side of his head to the right, the leading edge dyed a bright fluorescent green. His eyelashes were long enough that they had to be fake, with a number of thicker, bright orange ones evenly spaced throughout, and his eyes had been thoroughly surrounded by an artfully designed green, orange, and blue eyeliner. His clothes were a bit more tame: some sort of suit jacket or blazer left unbuttoned overtop a tight shirt, rounded out by a pair of slacks that weren't _indecently_ tight.  
  
Ultimately, I blamed being forced to learn at-a-glance profiling as a Brockton Bay survival skill for immediately and irrevocably deciding that he had to be gay. He stormed out onto the sidewalk, the bouncer sheepishly following behind him, and stopped ten or so feet away from me, tightly crossing his arms. When he spoke, the slight lilt to his tone only cemented my initial thoughts further.  
  
"Ah. Well," he announced in a clipped tone. "Thanks for coming. I don't mean to sound rude, or ungrateful, but," He pointedly looked me up and down. "I didn't think our cozy little club warranted the personal attention of a cape." I blinked, caught off guard.  
  
"Ah, I have some guys waiting nearby too, just in case." His mouth and eyes opened theatrically wide and he briefly turned to gesture to the bouncer.  
  
"She's got guys nearby too! The footman to mop up whatever's left after the bomb's been dropped, no doubt."  
  
I was left dumbfounded. Of all the receptions I'd imagined myself getting, ranging from fearful to silently hostile, this sort brashness was certainly not in my mind as an option. Eventually, the only response I managed to give was: "Excuse me?" His mouth opened back up and he seemed intent on furthering his tirade, but was interrupted when the bouncer slapped a hand down on his shoulder.  
  
"Uh, Mitch?" he began with a nervous waver, glancing over at me. "Maybe you wanna step back and take a quick breath?" The owner, now identified as 'Mitch,' snapped his mouth shut and pressed his lips tightly together, breaking our eye contact to stare at the ground. Meanwhile, the bouncer had locked onto me with a look like a deer caught in a pair of headlights, obviously worried about how I'd react.  
  
Unfortunately, I had no idea what to do or say. I mean, I probably _should_ have pressed back at him, laying on the intimidation and demanding respect; or at least that's what would be expected of me. On the other hand, I could sympathize with the poor guy. He had every right to be angry and suspicious. After all, there **was** more going on than me coming here just to protect his club and in an ideal world, he **shouldn't** have to pay or beg anyone else for a modicum of safety.  
  
Looking at him, I even saw a bit of myself, my _old_ self, in his body language: legs and arms crossed and wrapped into himself, unconsciously trying to make himself smaller. Now that I was looking at him more closely, I noticed other tells too. He was trembling, in spite of how much he was tensing up to try to hide it. Listening, I could make out the sound of his heartbeat, pounding just about twice as fast as the bass to the dance music emanating from his club behind him.  
  
He was terrified, and getting angry and lashing out must have been his defense mechanism: the way he tried to hide his own personal weaknesses in a city that was as ruthless as a ravenous beast.  
  
I didn't think that sort of coping mechanism was smart, especially in the face of a possibly short-tempered _parahuman_ , but in retrospect I couldn't look back on any of my own methods of dealing with problems and say that they were any better. He'd gotten this far, managing a business that he seemed to be able to keep afloat, presumably doing exactly as he was doing now.  
  
How was I supposed to tackle this in a way that I wouldn't deeply regret later on? I had so many memories like that already that I could make a little bit of effort to avoid one more.  
  
After regarding him for a few more moments of silence, I decided to try walking something of a middle ground.  
  
"Maybe I just haven't been around long enough to pick up on all of their methods and attitudes, but I can't help but think that if you'd spoken this way to one of the ABB's _other parahumans_ , they wouldn't be nearly as calm as I'm being right now. If I forget that the past two minutes ever happened, would you like to try again?"  
  
His eyes closed and he brought up one of his hands to press into his forehead. After a moment, he raked his fingers through his hair and looked up at me with a nod and a tight smile.  
  
"Yes. You're right. I apologize. I- I just-" He paused, looking down at the sidewalk and clasped his hands nervously together. "It's a little weird, and when one cape shows up, more are **sure** to follow, so I'm just- worried, that my club may turn into some sort of warzone!" I had no response for that, and when he looked up to meet my eyes again, shaking his head a little as though asking me for some sort of reassurance, all I could do was remain silent.  
  
He spread his hands apart, gesturing sharply as though he were about to start speaking again but cut himself off. His eyes once more darted down to the sidewalk between us and he pulled his hands back together, rubbing them rhythmically and blowing out a worried sigh. Finally, he met my eyes again and with a few quick gestures to punctuate his words, he asked the million dollar question.  
  
"Are my patrons in danger?"  
  
Placing my hands on my hips, I looked away, down the street into Empire territory. After a moment of thought, I gestured off down the street and turned back to him.  
  
"It sounded to me like they already were in danger." His mouth twisted into an unsatisfied frown and he tilted his head forwards, raising his eyebrows to give me a slightly patronizing look.  
  
"That's not the sort of danger I'm talking about, hun. Is there a forecast for, I don't know, rampaging dragons and leveled buildings." I sighed, and brought a hand up to rub at the bridge of my nose like I used to do when I still wore glasses. Eventually, all I could do was reply with a shrug.  
  
"I don't know." We both stood there for a moment, staring at each other with dissatisfaction and a pregnant pause hanging in the air. Finally, I got fed up and asked the primary question. "Do you want me to stay or not? I can't honestly say that nothing's going to happen, but the whole reason I'm here is to fight off the other guys if it does. You paid Lung his protection money, so the least I can do is try to keep your business safe."  
  
His eyebrows shot up and he blinked at me in obvious surprise. For a moment, he turned back to glance at the bouncer, who answered his look with a noncommittal shrug. Turning back to me, he passed the shrug on while spreading his hands apart, as though he were saying 'what can you do?'  
  
"Well, then yes, I suppose I'd be grateful if you'd look out for us." After a moment of indecision, he took a few hesitant steps closer to me and held out his right hand. "I'm Mitchell. You can call me Mitch or Mitchy or whatever else suits your fancy." Taking a step forwards to meet him, I reached out and accepted the handshake.  
  
"Battousai."  
  
As we pulled apart, his lips pursed together and he made a show of shaking out his hand.  
  
"Woo! Damn hun, you sure do have a steady grip. Firm and tight, like a sailor's-"  
  
"Mitch!" The bouncer yelped out, stepping forwards to slap his hand back down on Mitchell's shoulder. The somewhat flamboyant man turned back to him with a scandalized look.  
  
"What?! What'd you think I was gonna say, Ken? You dirty thing, you. Get your mind outta that gutter." The bouncer, Ken, gave an exasperated groan and not-so-subtly gestured in my direction.  
  
"Can we not? Please?" Mitchell waved him off before he planted his hands on his hips and turned back to me. Once again he made a show of looking me up and down and met my eyes again.  
  
"So. How does this work?"  



	6. 1.6

1.6  
  
I had mixed feelings about guard duty, not that I would ever say it out loud though. There were plenty of other jobs Lung could come up with for me that would be far worse, and it wasn't like I actually minded the _guarding_ part. In fact, being given the opportunity to actually protect something was pretty much a dream come true for me at this point: a bastion of peace in an otherwise turbulent storm. So no, it wasn't the job itself that was bothering me, it was what it entailed.  
  
Simply put, waiting blindly for something bad to happen was eating at me.  
  
I wanted to _do_ something, to be proactive and keep myself occupied by taking preventative measures of some kind. I wasn't in a hurry to get myself into a fight or anything, but to put it bluntly, guard duty was boring. More than boring, it was also stressful in an ambiguous and pervasive sort of way. Together, that meant that I was left alone with my own overactive imagination, trying to keep myself alert and engaged while also tuning out the half of my brain that painted every innocuous sound and happenstance in a new, nefarious light.  
  
I really was my own worst enemy at times like this.  
  
Maybe if the circumstances had been different, I could've gone out and actively patrolled the edge of ABB territory, intercepting any Empire threats _before_ they had a chance to get too close. Unfortunately, Lung had been clear that I was to maintain a low profile, acting only in response to the E88 crossing our arbitrary line in the sand. I didn't like it, but that was the way Lung did things.  
  
Lung's image and reputation were a not insignificant power in their own right. His name _meant_ something to people and his presence alone could dictate the way other groups acted. He'd had years to cultivate his image, using outrageous feats of indomitability to give his every word and action an oppressive weight of inevitability. To maintain this, he operated with a sort of code that made anticipating the consequences of his actions and his response to the actions of others relatively straightforward. In a general sense, he was predictable. He _wanted_ to be predictable, because in the end, when all the cards were down and the outcome was being decided, it didn't make a bit of difference. No matter what plans you made or tactics you tried, Lung would win and it would all be for nothing.  
  
_'Lung'_ became not just a name, but a promise: an inevitable reality in the minds of all it threatened to consume, and I just so happened to be its newest apostle.  
  
Oh joy for me.  
  
Ultimately, that meant that I, as an extension of Lung's organization, was now bound by the same expectations as Lung himself. If that meant playing into an absurd and childish game of feigned ignorance, then so be it. After all, it hadn't _actually_ been Lung who attacked the Empire's building, no matter what anyone else may have thought. That meant that publically the ABB had no reason to be expecting a sudden increase in hostilities. Being caught visibly reinforcing the frontlines would apparently be the same as claiming responsibility for the attack, something that Lung would never do; if he was going to attack you, he'd make damn sure that you knew it was him.  
  
At the same time, Lung couldn't just outright ignore the possibility of an attack, not when he knew that the Empire might blame him anyway. If there was a chance for one to come, even one based on a trick or misinformation, it would be foolish to forgo preparations altogether. As a result, I had to play along, no matter how stupid or tedious the game actually was, and deal with all of the stress that resulted from it.  
  
Not for the first time, I found myself thinking that just getting into a fight already would make things so much simpler. Not for the first time, I told myself to shut the hell up.  
  
The routine clatter of a furnace exhaust vent shuddering to life startled me from my thoughts and brought me back to full alert. I was sitting up on the roof of the nightclub, leaning back against the side of the vent for a little warmth with my sword between my legs, propped up against my left shoulder. I'd come up here to stay out of sight and assuage Mitchell's worries of my presence scaring off customers.  
  
Even though I couldn't directly see what was happening at street level from my resting place, my excellent, power enhanced hearing made keeping track of the surrounding area relatively easy. I had no difficulty distinguishing the number of individual voices, and evaluating their general tone, position, and direction of travel only required a little more concentration. Additionally, the white noise of the vent hissing out it's exhaust added to the ever present throbbing of the club's music, helped to soften the impact of sudden, sharp, and otherwise mundane sounds on my nerves. Even so, I still found myself tensing up with every passing car or boisterous group of night goers.  
  
It seemed like it was going to be a long night.  
  
Idly, I found my thoughts drifting to my dad: wondering whether he'd gone to bed yet or if I'd come home to find him passed out on the couch. I often fought with myself over whether or not I should encourage him to actually sleep in his bed every night. On the one hand, sleeping on an actual mattress would be much better for both his health and quality of sleep, but when the cost was the toil of crawling his way up the stairs, dragging his wheelchair up behind him, I couldn't bring myself to chastise him for staying in one spot.  
  
As my mind began to once again replay the gut twisting memory of watching my dad inch up the stairs, rebuking any offer of assistance I gave, I tried to forcibly distract myself, focusing instead on the sound of another car working its way down the street from Empire territory. Giving it my attention, I realized that rather than one car, there were two driving in sequence. The engines had a fairly distinctive heavy rumble, closer to a big truck than a little clunker of a car. That realization made me sit up a bit straighter, body getting a bit more tense as my left hand drifted up to wrap around the scabbard of my sword.  
  
Two larger vehicles, maybe trucks or vans, seeming to drive in sequence could mean a transport of some kind. I was vaguely aware of the sorts of armored vans and heavy trucks the E88 always seemed to have at hand for operations, unlike the ABB's more run-of-the-mill supply. Would they actually send a whole transport of guys to harass one little nightclub though?  
  
With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I heard the vehicles begin to slow and leapt to my feet, sliding my sword back into my sash just as they pulled to a stop out front.  
  
Quickly but silently, I padded my way closer to the edge of the roof, stopping once the other side of the street was just barely visible to me over the lip of the brick building. Here, I confirmed that the heavy engines belonged to two full-sized vans, parked one behind the other at the opposite curb. They were painted a nondescript grey color that was made all the more suspicious by the unnaturally dark tint on the front windows. Even with my enhanced sight, I was only able to make out black silhouettes in the darkness: people, but with heads and bodies far thicker than I expected. Listening in, I was able to make out a number of voices conversing over the incessant thrum of the club, but they were muffled into obscurity, the vans apparently being well insulated and sealed.  
  
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the front and back doors of the vans popped open and I felt my heart leap into my throat. It wasn't the Empire. It was the Parahuman Response Team, the PRT.  
  
"-your weapons down and stay mostly to this side of the street. We don't want to crowd around and stir up a big panic." A gravelly male voice was the first I heard: the apparent captain of this squad based on the chorus of acknowledgments from the rest of the troopers. Listening as intently as I was, their voices echoed to me, once from their mouths and again from eight radios. There were nine of them in total, all dressed in thick armor, helmets with face concealing visors, and carrying a variety of weapons. "Mason, stick with me in case I need one of your dumb jokes." He was answered with a round of chuckles and a few groans.  
  
"Don't encourage him captain," responded a good natured feminine voice, a grin evident in her tone. "Otherwise, he won't shut up for the rest of the night."  
  
"Aw Cheeks, if ya ever get lonely without me, you know you can call up any time!" was the confident reply.  
  
"Enough," cut in an authoritative but exhausted sounding male voice. "Let's try to keep this quick, we've got a lot of ground yet to cover. Eyes and ears open, you know the drill. Engines are running, Captain."  
  
"Right, right" replied the first voice with a sigh. "Gonna have me sprinting everywhere by the end of the night." The Captain's grumbles were answered by another round of chuckles before he started across the street, another figure breaking off from the group to keep pace beside him. The remaining troopers spread out a bit, turning and seeming to scan the surroundings, each one focusing on a different area. As a few started scanning along the various rooftops, I slowly sunk lower out of sight and took a cautious step backwards.  
  
With a moment to breathe, my initial surge of panic had given way to a sort of tense but level focus, and fortunately, it seemed like my knee-jerk suspicion on the PRT's presence here was wrong. I had assumed, with a sort of outraged sense of betrayal, that Mitchell had probably sold me out and called them, but so far their conversation had given me no reason to believe that. Logically, I probably shouldn't have been surprised if he had sold me out. After all, I _was_ the bad guy here. Emotionally though, I prickled at the idea of such a blatant betrayal of trust, especially after all of the leniency I had shown him.  
  
Putting uncomfortable and unconstructive thoughts aside, I focused my attention back on what was happening on the street.  
  
"Oh shit," I heard Ken curse quietly to himself. As though echoing his sentiment, the few groups of people that had been walking up or down the street had stopped where they were, debating in hushed tones whether to stay and watch, or turn around and go a different way. "Shit, shit, shit." As the troopers stepped up onto the near curb, I heard a piece of equipment click into place. A moment later when the captain spoke, his voice was more clear. I assumed he'd flipped up his visor.  
  
"Good evening," he called out in his gruff but amicable tone.  
  
"Ah, evening." Ken replied with an obvious nervous hesitance. I cringed at the sound of his nervous twiddling and fidgeting; he was acting too suspiciously. "Uh, what can I do for you?"  
  
"Well, I'm Captain Warrick with the PRT. These here are my men." the captain started conversationally. "No need to be on edge, we're just looking for an ear. You work here at the, uh- this nightclub?" Ken mumbled an unintelligible reply, but seemed to get the point across. "Ah, good. Y'see, some reports came in early today that have the higher ups a bit nervous. Seems there's a good possibility that some nasty gang fighting might break out in the area."  
  
"Oh wow," Ken said, trying and failing to sound surprised. "That's- that's not good. You think it's gonna be around here?"  
  
"Well, it's certainly a possibility," Captain Warrick replied unfazed. "It's hard to predict these things exactly, but this area's part of a stretch that's at the most risk. Anyway, we were told to drive around, pick out any places that are still open this late, and warn em off. Maybe suggest they close up for a night or two to be safe."  
  
"Oh! Uh, that's- I don't, uh-"  
  
"It's not a government mandate or anything." The captain cut back in. "We're not gonna force you to shut down, but I imagine a good number of people come through a club on any given night. It'd be awful if they got caught out here in the middle of a warzone. I'm not saying something will happen, but you don't want to be responsible for all those people if something goes wrong."  
  
"I- I- I can't make this sort of decision." Ken managed to break in to the Captain's speech. "Just- let me go get the owner." Without waiting for a response, Ken scrambled up off of his stool and fled into the club. The captain blew out a heavy sigh in response.  
  
"Guy was pretty jumpy looking, don't 'cha think?" The trooper with the captain, Mason, interjected.  
  
"Yeah," the captain breathed out, sounding put-upon. "Hey Lieutenant, can you check and see if there are any entries in the system about this place? See if anything stands out?" The exhausted sounding man was the one to reply.  
  
"Just a second." After a short period of silence, he seemed to find what he needed. "Uh, aside from the calls typical for a place that serves alcohol, there are, say, a couple dozen or so reports concerning the E88 and ABB: vandalism, harassment, assault, the usual spread."  
  
"Anything done about it?" The captain queried. The lieutenant replied with a cynical snort.  
  
"As much as you'd expect: unit sent by to check, try to take in or run off anyone that's still around, take a statement, probably suggest they buy a couple security cameras. The usual smoke and bull."  
  
"Oh great," Captain Warrick sighed. There was a muted thunk as he hit Mason's arm. "Better start thinking of a good one." The trooper snorted in response.  
  
"Roger that."  
  
While everyone waited for Ken to return with Mitchell, my head was spinning as I tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do in a situation like this. The ABB didn't go out of their way to antagonize the PRT or the heroes, or at least I didn't think they did. Most of the time they wound up in conflict, it was because the heroes were responding to some sort of call or to deal with a confrontation. Occasionally you'd hear about a PRT raid on a drug den or safe house on the news, but that wasn't what was going on here. From what I could tell, this group or squad or whatever, was driving around to spread a warning: to try to keep innocent people out of harm's way.  
  
Did I want to confront and try to stop them? Well, of course not, but did I _have_ to? I wasn't sure.  
  
Certainly, they'd have to press deeper into what was ABB territory to finish spreading their warning and that could be considered grounds enough to make myself known to them, maybe give a strongly worded warning if nothing else (unless of course they decided to attack me.) If they just drove around and spread their message to what few businesses remained in the area, they could probably finish without any trouble resulting from it. On the other hand, it was possible that they might run into one of the groups of unpowered gang members that had been spread around in preparation for a fight. If that happened, I could see things getting hectic rather quickly.  
  
If a fight broke out, and Lung found out that I had all but let it happen, what would he do?  
  
My internal conflict was interrupted as I heard the door to the club open again and the music briefly surged.  
  
"Gentlemen! Hello and good evening!" Mitchell called out, his voice almost theatrical with over-the-top enthusiasm. "What can I do for you?! Ken here tells me that there's a spot of trouble brewin'!" There was a brief pause as Captain Warrick cleared his throat.  
  
"Unfortunately, that seems to be the case," he replied. "I'm Captain Warrick with the PRT. These are my men. Now, I understand that you're the owner of this club, Mr.-" He trailed off, expecting Mitchell to fill in the blank.  
  
"Oh, just call me Mitchell or Mitch, that's what you'll hear everyone else sayin' anyway. _The Heat_ here is my baby, almost a decade old, now that I think of it. Are you sayin' you want me to close down?" There was no real heat in Mitchell's tone, but somehow it felt like he'd taken on a bit of a confrontational edge.  
  
"It's just a recommendation, and only temporarily." Captain Warrick replied in a placating manner. "If a big fight between the ABB and the E88 breaks out, there's no knowing for sure how much it'll escalate or how long it'll last. For a business that services a large number of people, like your nightclub, there's a responsibility-"  
  
"How am I supposed to get by if I don't do my business, Captain? Not everyone out here can _afford_ to just shut down for a few nights, if not more!"  
  
"I understand," the captain interjected in a sympathetic tone with a self evident 'but'. Mitchell cut him off before he could continue.  
  
"Do you, Captain? Are you goin' to be the one to make up the difference in my bills when it comes time to collect? Are you goin' to head on down to city hall for me, and tell them why I'm short on my taxes? I don't know what you're expecting, Captain, but these people _know_ this city just as well as I do. I can put up a warning, but do you know what the statistics say your chance of getting mugged out here are on a normal given day? How many of them do you think are going to bat an eye over it?" Captain Warrick tried to interrupt again but Mitchell continued, talking over him.  
  
"I have an idea, Captain. Why not stick around and make sure no one gets hurt as they continue to go about their _normal_ lives. Isn't that your duty? To _protect_?"  
  
As Mitchell continued to build up a full head of steam, I made my decision. With how much attention the confrontation was drawing from spectators, small groups gathering on either side of the street to gawk at the free and relatively harmless entertainment, I knew I had to act. If any of the PRT squad's other stops tonight built up even half as much energy as what Mitch was churning himself up into, word would certainly get around. I needed to change the nature of the gossip.  
  
I had to draw my line in the sand.  
  
With a few quick steps, I hopped up onto the lip of the nightclub's roof three stories above the ground. I'd hoped that I wouldn't need to do much more to draw attention to myself and thankfully, I was right.  
  
" **Captain, up high! Twelve 'o'clock!** " I was impressed with how quickly the facemask of every PRT trooper snapped up to lock on to me. When they saw me every last one of them tensed, pulling their weapons higher or more tightly to their shoulders. They didn't bring them fully to bear, but I could see in their posture and movements just how quickly and automatically they could aim and fire.  
  
As Captain Warrick took a few cautious steps away from the club to get a better look at me, I recognized the Lieutenant's voice speaking up.  
  
"Squad four to console, over." A beat later I heard the grainy reply over the troopers' radios.  
  
_"Console. Go ahead four."_  
  
"This is Lieutenant Grayson of squad four, transmitting from sector bravo, x-ray, six. Encountered unknown, costumed individual. Description: average height, slender build, black attire, hooded face mask, has what appears to be a weapon on their left hip, seems to be a sword of some kind. Please advise."  
  
_"Standby, Lieutenant."_ There was a brief silence, during which the troopers and I continued our tense staring contest. _"Uh, Lieutenant, I'm not seeing anything here. Is there anymore you can tell me?"_ Lieutenant Grayson huffed in frustration before replying.  
  
"First appearance on the rooftops. Attire has a- somewhat oriental feel to it, maybe. Hard to tell, but looks like some sort of protective guards on the forearms and maybe the legs. Over."  
  
_"Yeah, I've got nothing for you lieutenant. No matches. Captain Warrick has approval for field command. Exercise caution and proceed under first contact protocol at his discretion. Console out."_  
  
As soon as the radio fell silent, the captain released the grip of the grenade launcher hanging at his chest and very deliberately raised his right arm to give me a little wave.  
  
"Good evening there," he called out amicably. "Anything we can do for you?" I turned my attention to the captain, but otherwise remained silent as I tried to mentally plot out how I wanted this encounter to go. I was still floundering over the content of my opening speech when he called out again.  
  
"You know, this area's not safe for a lone cape to be patrolling at the moment. There's a good chance of some nasty fighting breaking out between the ABB and the E88. Not something I'd want to get caught between if I could help it." Did he think that I was an independent cape, maybe a new trigger? Assumed innocent until proven guilty, maybe. I would have liked to perpetuate that assumption, to maintain some ambiguity in my identity and allegiance, but unfortunately I couldn't do that. Lung would expect otherwise. As my left hand toyed with the top of my scabbard, I gathered my courage and called back.  
  
"I know. That's why Lung sent me here."  
  
With one fluid movement, I leaned forward and stepped off the side of the building. The three story fall didn't inconvenience me in the slightest, my knees absorbing the impact with an easy grace before I stood back to my full height.  
  
The troopers' reactions to my declaration and following stunt had been predictable. The tension in the group's body language climbed up another notch as every weapon aside from the captain's snapped up to track my movement. In response, the groups of spectators that were still watching realized there was a chance that their harmless entertainment might turn a bit dangerous and most turned to flee.  
  
Instinctively, I found myself taking note of the types and numbers of weapons the troopers had at the ready: four assault rifles, three grenade launchers, and two backpacks with hoses that I recognized as containment foam sprayers from PRT propaganda. Many of them had extra weapons visible, ranging from shotguns, extra rifles, and pistols to cylindrical canisters that I assumed were grenades, but those weren't an immediate threat to me.  
  
As my gaze wandered over the group, analyzing the loose formation they had subconsciously drifted into, estimating the relative danger each one of them posed to me, and devising plans to eliminate that danger as quickly, concisely, and safely as possible, I saw a visible shudder pass over them like a sudden chilling breeze. As several fingers drew closer to triggers, Captain Warrick cleared his throat, pulling my attention back to him.  
  
"I see." He said in a grim matter-of-fact tone. Sighing, he brought a hand up to scratch at the stubble on his chin and continued. "That's- well, a bit troublesome for us. You see, we're not supposed to be getting into any trouble if we can help it, lots of paper work and all that. Since this is basically a humanitarian mission, I wonder if there's any chance that- we could get back to peacefully doin' what we were doin' and, well, you could do the same."  
  
As the captain and I met each other's gazes, I couldn't help but reassess my initial opinion of him. I had thought that he seemed rather disinterested and lackadaisical at first, but now that I was face to face with him I noticed a sort of piercing shrewdness to his eyes. It reminded me of my dad when he had still been working: how he could listen to several people's problems at once and after thinking for a moment, concisely give them a response or a temporary solution, so long as the matter was related to his work. It was a kind of confidence that could be born only from experience, and in spite of his demeanor, Captain Warrick had it in spades.  
  
"I don't know, Captain," I replied, doing my best to sound imposing but sarcastic. I wasn't sure how well I pulled it off. "Is it a policy of yours to badger people into submission, people that are already under Lung's protection?" Before the captain could reply, Mitchell tried to break into the confrontation.  
  
"Battousai, that's not-" Before he could undermine me, whether intentionally or otherwise, I snapped my gaze over to him and silenced him with a glare. The effect was immediate.  
  
With an audible gasp, Mitchell flinched away from me, taking a fearful step back and locking up as his face went pale. I knew that his reaction would haunt me later, but at the moment I didn't have time to dwell on it. Whatever he'd seen in my glare, it was enough to push Mason over the edge and the trooper leapt into action.  
  
Breaking into a charge, he sprinted over to where Mitchell and Ken were standing in three bounding steps. When he was close enough, he reached out to grab onto Mitchell and must have intended to push him to the side, blocking the both of them from me with his body. Unfortunately, his good intentions were in vain.  
  
I was far faster.  
  
In a single, near instantaneous step, I reached his side and took hold of his leading arm. Pivoting around him, I put his body between myself and the rest of the troopers, forcibly twisting his arm and wrenching it behind his back in the process. At this point, some part of his training must have kicked in and he instinctually dove forwards, somersaulting in an effort to evade my lock and avoid having his shoulder torn from its socket. Realizing that his rifle would be free to fire if he landed on his back, I twisted his arm again, torquing it to flip him onto his stomach and pin his weapon between his body and the ground.  
  
Snapping my head to the side, I spared a brief glance for Mitchell and Ken behind me, mindful of the bouncer's gun. Fortunately, lashing out at me seemed to be the last thing on their minds. They'd recoiled back into the face of one of the club's windows, and Ken had finally shown a bit of his bouncer spirit by pulling Mitchell behind himself, gun completely forgotten. Dismissing them, I turned back to the troopers.  
  
Immediately, I was aware of the abrupt shift that had overcome them: the sudden leap into action spurring them to arms as well. Tense but passive readiness exploded into active aggression, and I felt a wave of what I could only describe as _intent_ slam into my senses like a physical force. My free hand shot down to grab the hilt of my sword and I began to pull it free. Before the scene could erupt in bloodshed, though, a shrill whistle managed to pierce its way through the collective adrenaline haze and all attention snapped to one figure.  
  
Captain Warrick remained where he'd started: in the middle of the scene between me and the other troopers. He'd turned to face my new position and his right hand had returned to the grip of the grenade launcher that hung at his chest, but he still had yet to raise it at me. His left arm was held extended out to one side, angled a bit behind with his hand spread in the universal signal for 'stop'. His body was tense, but when I met his eyes I saw the same shrewd, levelheadedness that I'd noticed before.  
  
I found myself surprised and more than a little impressed with the discipline in the other troopers' actions. Their intent to attack me in defense of their squad mate hadn't diminished in the slightest, but at the captain's silent order they reigned in their snap judgments and deferred to him. In fact, as my eyes flickered over their formation, I couldn't help but marvel over how obviously well trained they were.  
  
Whether by the influence of my power or something else, I effortlessly picked apart the structure of their formation and the intent of their positions. Without a direct order, they had automatically spread across the street, angling slightly closer to me at the buildings on my right to subtly pressure me back towards ABB territory. They wanted to contain and direct my movements without backing me into a corner. It wouldn't work, not with how freely and quickly I could move around an urban environment, but that wasn't the point.  
  
Their training allowed them to seamlessly work together and react to a possible threat on instinct without waiting for an active order. Then, when their superior wordlessly ordered them to wait, they deferred to his judgment without a second thought. Seeing this really drove home the fact that the PRT was a highly organized government taskforce, one with real military training, not just some part-time urban police force.  
  
For a moment, I couldn't help but wonder how the gangs managed to gain any ground against them at all; but one look at my own position, made the answer plain to see.  
  
At my feet I held one of their own: pinned, in pain, and helpless. Behind me were two frightened civilians, unequipped to deal with the level of threat that I posed to them. All around me sat the collateral of Brockton Bay: people, homes, businesses, infrastructure, and intangible things like a sense of security or peace of mind. The gangs were taking the city itself hostage, and the Heroes with the PRT were desperately trying to stop them _without_ tearing everything to the ground.  
  
With no small amount of guilt, as Mason fought to hold in his pained groans beneath me, I eased back on some of the pressure to his shoulder and deliberately slid my sword back into its scabbard.  
  
As we stood there, silently regarding each other in a tense standoff primed to blow at any moment, it was Mason, my impromptu prisoner of all people, who spoke up.  
  
"Ah, hey Captain," he called out in a strained but lighthearted tone. "I think I've got one." Captain Warrick replied without missing a beat.  
  
"Save it for later, Mason."  
  
"Yeah," he called back sounding sheepish. "Guess you're right."  
  
With a grimace, I couldn't help but turn away from them, and after a few more moments of silent regret, I made my decision.  
  
Releasing the tension on the wisecracking trooper's arm, I bent down and took a hold of the armor at the base of his neck. With a single pull, I demonstrated a bit of my enhanced strength and hoisted the man to his feet, letting go of his arm in the process. Before he could get his balance, I grabbed onto his armor again with my right hand and reached around him to grab the front of his rifle. I leaned forwards and purposefully met his eyes, or at least where I thought his eyes were beneath his visor, and waited. Recognizing my intent, he made a show of letting the gun go, opening his hands wide and spreading them apart theatrically. Finally, I turned my attention back to Captain Warrick.  
  
"I'm not so violent that I'd attack anyone who crosses my path, but I do have my own job to do here, Captain. Take your men and get out of here; this area is controlled by the ABB now." He watched me silently for a few moments longer. Eventually, his mouth twisted into a grimace and he looked away.  
  
"Alright." He agreed, sounding worn out. Behind him, a quiet chorus of outraged protests began, only to be silenced by one sharp gesture. "We were never looking for a fight in the first place, only to spread a warning." He took a moment to look meaningfully towards Mitchell and Ken. "I think that's been done here." Fighting back another grimace, I waited as he turned to address his men.  
  
"Pack it in," he ordered with a note of finality, gesturing towards the vans they'd arrived in. After a moment, I heard the lieutenant quietly speak up to supplement his orders.  
  
"Slow and steady, weapons up. Cheeks, you and me out with the captain until Mason's safely with us." There were a chorus of quiet confirmations as the troopers began moving, slowly stalking a wide arc through the street around me back towards their rides.  
  
As doors were opened and the men slowly loaded into the transports, there were never less than four pairs of eyes watching me, ready to react. Once the last trooper had made it across the street, I let go of Mason's gun and gave him a gentle push forwards. Wordlessly he complied, starting forwards slowly with his hands still up in surrender. When he reached Captain Warrick, he was given a little, acknowledging nod. In response he increased his pace, jogging the rest of the distance between him and the vans and quickly climbing into one.  
  
Still standing resolutely where he'd been throughout the encounter, the captain was the last to move. With one final quick survey of the area, he met my eyes and nodded before flipping his visor back down to conceal his face. He turned, the only one of them to break his line of sight to me, and calmly crossed the street.  
  
As I watched him go, the sunken set of his shoulders belying a hidden disappointment, my dissatisfaction surged up to prod at my conscience. Before I had a chance to second guess myself, to question the possible consequences of my sudden decision, I called out.  
  
"Captain!" I winced as he visibly tensed, a bit of hesitance finally making its way into his body language as he turned back to face me. For a moment, I fumbled over my words before I clumsily managed to spit out a suitably 'in character' line. "I'm the one watching this area, but my main focus needs to be on the Empire in case they come looking for trouble. But, if a commotion gets stirred up somewhere nearby, I'll have to go take care of it." Nervously crossing my arms, I made a point of looking away from the man out towards Empire territory, hoping he'd catch my veiled meaning. "When you leave, make sure you do it quietly."  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him studying me. I wasn't sure what he was thinking. Maybe he was weighing my status as a villain in a ruthless gang against my nature as a fellow human being capable of empathy. Maybe he was just tired and wanted to get his job done and go home. Whatever conclusion he happened to come to, he nodded and called out in reply.  
  
"I understand. You won't hear a peep." With that he turned and climbed into one of the vans, not sparing me a second look. As the engines revved up, the vans came to life, almost seeming cautious in how slowly they accelerated forwards. They rumbled down the street growing quieter with the distance, and when they reached the first intersection, turned left and out of sight, deeper into ABB territory.  
  
For a short time I remained standing on the sidewalk, an internal debate between my conscience and my fears wreaking havoc on my nerves as I wondered whether or not I had just made a huge mistake. Eventually, I forced myself to push those thoughts aside, ignoring them completely. I'd made my decision; worrying about the outcome wouldn't help me now. If any consequences arose from it, I'd deal with them as they appeared: problems for the me of the future to figure out.  
  
Turning back to face the nightclub, I spotted Mitchell and Ken, backed into the cove of the front doorway and nervously watching me like I was a bomb that would explode at any second. Their fear pulled the image of Mitchell's terrified reaction back to the front of my mind and I turned away, guilt digging into the pit of my stomach like a dull, persistent knife. Swallowing an uncomfortable lump in my throat, I turned back to them.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
My feeble apology said, I bent my knees and leapt back onto the rooftops, fleeing new demons the same way I always did: ignoring them as best I could.  



	7. 1.7

1.7  
  
"Battousai! _Hey, Battousai!_ " Ken hissed out in a stage whisper.   
  
"I see them, Ken," I called back, sounding more exasperated than I would have liked. It was after midnight, and the stress and lack of sleep seemed to be wearing on me.  
  
At the end of the block, a rowdy group of men were making their way down the street towards the club. There were nine of them, and though the majority would have been indistinguishable from any other blue collar worker under different circumstances, the two with proudly shaven heads and gang tattoos on their necks betrayed their likely allegiance.  
  
The Empire had finally reared their ugly heads.  
  
The group seemed to be outfitted largely in impromptu weaponry, ranging from chains and lengths of pipe, to baseball bats and bent golf clubs. They also seemed to have quite the collection of what I assumed to be alcohol with them, more than half the members carrying cardboard cases and plastic bags filled with loudly clattering bottles and cans. Every once in a while, a half empty bottle would be pitched down the street, smashing onto the pavement with a messy burst of fluid and glass, and a celebratory cheer.  
  
They certainly didn't fit my mental image of an Empire war party. I knew for a fact that the Empire had enough guns of various types and sizes to equip their members for any serious engagements. That meant that this likely wasn't an official attack, insofar as any gang related activity could be called 'official,' and was probably just a group of assholes looking to blow off steam.  
  
It didn't really change what I would have to do, but seemed like an important distinction to make. It meant that at the very least, the Empire wasn't starting some serious offensive here just yet.  
  
As the delinquent group drew closer and Ken worked himself up into a nervous tizzy, I perched myself on the edge of the roof, waiting for a good opportunity to make my entrance.  
  
"Well, well, well," one of the men with a shaven head called out, tapping his wooden bat on the ground as the group came to a stop. They were standing in the middle of the street, a stone's throw away from the front of the club. "If it isn't the queer lovin' dog, sittin' faithfully out in the cold. That faggot got you beggin' for scraps yet, or do you just lap up whatever hits the floor?"   
  
There was a round of derisive laughter and jeers as the loudmouth smirked and looked to his companions for affirmation. For his part, Ken held up a hand in warning and showed admirable self restraint in leaving his gun untouched.  
   
"Hey, we don't want any trouble." He called back in a fairly level tone. "Just go about your business somewhere else and we won't have to get the police involved."  
  
"Hah!" a man with a barrel of a chest called back. "You think those hard workin' guys and gals got the time to worry 'bout what happens to a bunch a' _fags?_ "  
  
"Yeah!" another man called out. "They're too busy doing God's work, busting up niggers and ching chongs to spare a pillow biting pansy house like this the time of day."  
  
As the group erupted into another round of boisterous laughter, I felt my hand twisting around the scabbard of my sword.  
  
"Go ahead and call 'em! See how long it takes 'em to give a shit!"  
  
As a member of the group wound up to pitch a beer bottle straight at the club's open sign, I made my move.  
  
Mentally timing my descent as the bottle left his hand, I stepped over the side of the building, dropping to the ground and snatching the bottle out of the air on my way down. It sloshed messily, and I held onto it with two fingers before dropping it to the ground to avoid getting any of the potent smelling beverage on my costume.  
  
The group had fallen into a hush as I turned to face them.  
  
"You guys sound awfully confident for a bunch of drunks stumbling around in Lung's territory," I called out, not needing to fake the anger in my voice.  
  
Ignoring his survival instincts, one of the bald heads called back.  
  
"The fuck we are, this is an Empire street."  
  
"No," I drawled sarcastically. "It's _really_ not."  
  
Without warning I dashed forwards, crossing the distance between me and baldy in one step to plant my right foot squarely into his chest. The kick knocked him back into another member of the group, sending them both tumbling to the ground.  
  
Most of the men recoiled in surprise, backing a few steps away from where I had suddenly appeared in the middle of them. As baldy number one wheezed breathlessly on the ground, baldy number two pushed his way forwards.  
  
"Don't just stand there, jump this stupid bitch before she does something!"  
  
Making good on his own call to arms, the man charged forwards, raising a metal pipe above his head to use as a bludgeon. In response, I stepped into his charge, pivoting on my left leg to whip my right up and around his raised arm. I pulled the kick short, bleeding off impact force in favor of wrapping my calf down around the man's neck, pinning his raised arm to the side of his head beneath my thigh and pulling him off balance.  
  
As he began to topple forwards, I followed through the momentum of my spin and used the grapple to leverage myself up, pulling my left leg over his back. With all of my weight suddenly on his neck, the stumbling man lost all hope of recovering his balance and plummeted towards a face plant into the pavement. Sparing a moment to snatch the pipe out of his hand, I planted my left foot back on the ground, having fully stepped over his back, and balanced easily on one leg as I held him in a stranglehold between my right calf and thigh.  
  
Taking a moment to glance around and assess the situation, I spotted three other individuals who looked like they were ready to heedlessly charge forwards, and one more lifting his jacket to reach into his waistband. Plotting out a quick course of action, I made my move.  
  
Leaning forwards, I lifted baldy straight into the air with my leg, pivoting partway through into a full standing split to carry him higher. Then, I reached down with the pipe to leverage his legs up, releasing my stranglehold once his body was parallel with the ground. Pulling my right leg back down, I planted my foot on his body's center of mass at the base of his spine and pushed off, flinging him forwards into two of the men starting to respond.  
  
Pulling my right leg back down and behind myself, I dug my foot into the ground and transitioned into a spin. I pulled my body low, bending until my chest was parallel with the ground, as a length of chain quietly whistled by over my head. Carrying through the momentum of the spin, I began to straighten back out and pulled my sword in its scabbard from my sash with my left hand. As though I were drawing the blade with a reverse-handed grip, I whipped the edge of the scabbard up into the underarm of the surprised man swinging the chain. It connected with a resounding crack and he began to topple over.  
  
Straightening up out of my crouching spin, I shifted my weight back onto my left foot, my right grinding loosely on the pavement to bleed off some momentum. As my eyes fell back on the man who'd been reaching into his waistband, now pulling up a pistol to aim at me in what felt like slow motion, I finished off my maneuver.  
  
With a quick flick of my wrist, I pitched my pilfered pipe straight into his hand. It connected with a sickening crunch, knocking the gun away to the other side of the street.  
  
There was a brief beat of silence as time seemed to catch up with me, before his pained scream reached my ears.  
  
"My hand! My fucking hand!" He collapsed to the ground, clutching his arm to his chest and crying out.  
  
Of the rest of the group, there were only two men left standing, and neither of them looked too eager to fight. They backed away from me, staring fearfully as they tried to help their companions back to their feet.  
  
With a slow, deliberate motion, I raised my sword to just below my eyes and partially drew the blade, rotating it with small movements to glint what light I could off of the polished surface. The men froze, eyes transfixed to the glinting metal.  
  
"Are you guys done yet, or do we need to keep going?" I called out, pouring as much derision into my tone as I could manage.  Baldy number one looked like he wanted to say something, but only managed a feeble wheeze before wincing and doubling over in pain. The man supporting him glared at me in a mixture of contempt and fear, before taking a panicked step back when I met his eyes.  
  
As I looked around, the rest of the group reacted with similar skittishness as my gaze passed over them. Whatever else they might have been thinking, the fight had clearly been knocked out of them.  
  
With a soft click, I sheathed my blade and lowered it to my side.  
  
"Maybe you guys didn't get the memo, but this is Lung's territory now," I called out, projecting conviction I didn't feel into my voice. Bringing up my sword, I used it to point at Mitch's nightclub. "That means that any businesses around here are under Lung's protection. If you want to be a nuisance, do it somewhere else. Otherwise, the next time I see you I won't let you off with just a warning."  
  
There was something surreal about threatening adult gang members like this. Even though I knew that I had the upper hand here, I still couldn't shake the feeling that at any moment they might see through me, see that I was just a fifteen year old girl seriously out of her depth. However, to my immense relief, after a few shared glances, uncertain movements, and mumbled curses and threats, the group gathered themselves together and started hobbling slowly back towards Empire territory, giving me a wide berth. I turned with them, keeping the group locked in my sights as they slowly shuffled down the street at the speed of a limping dog.  
  
I kept watching until they'd turned a corner, a full block and a half away.  
  
Wondering if I'd done enough to meet what was expected of me, I heaved out a sigh, slipped my sword back into my sash, and turned to survey the street. Spotting the handgun I’d knocked away before, I made my way over to it and carefully picked it up by the grip. I made sure to keep the muzzle pointed at the ground while I gave it a once over, looking for the safety. I _thought_ that I might have found it, but not being one hundred percent sure and unwilling to take a chance with a dangerous firearm, I turned to find Ken.  
  
He was standing stock still on the curb, hand on his pistol in its holster while he stared at me with a wide eyed, dumbfounded look. I walked over to him and held the handgun out.  
  
“Hey,” I called out, startling him from his stupor. “Can you show me how to deal with this?” He glanced down at the gun in my hands before turning back to me for confirmation.  
  
“Deal with it?” he asked, uncertain. I nodded in reply.  
  
“Yeah, how to put the safety on, take the bullets out, things like that.”  
  
“Ah,” he nodded in realization.  
  
He reached out for it hesitantly, repeatedly glancing at me as though to make sure it was really alright to take it. I shrugged mentally; if I really thought he was going to try to pull a fast one on me, it wouldn’t be a challenge to deal with him at this distance. Gingerly taking the weapon, he flipped it back and forth once to quickly study each side before holding it out to point at a switch near the back.  
  
“Uh, this gun has a safety decocker. When you push this switch down, it makes the gun unable to fire and safely decocks the hammer.” He then pointed to a button on the grip behind the trigger. “This button here releases the magazine.” He pressed it and pulled the magazine out with his other hand. I could see a bullet sticking out of the top of it so the gun had definitely been loaded. “Even with the magazine out, it’s important to check whether or not there’s a bullet still in the chamber.” He pulled back on the top of the gun, revealing a slot. As it opened a bullet popped out of the top of it.  
  
Reaching out, I snatched the bullet out of the air and turned it over in my fingers, giving it a once over. Ken glanced over at me nervously before gesturing at the gun again.  
  
“When the magazine is empty, the slide will be locked back after the gun fires. You have to push down on this lever here to release it.”  
  
I nodded and gave Ken a word of thanks for his explanation. Reaching out for the gun, he awkwardly placed it into my hand and gave me the magazine. After a quick study, I figured out how to put the extra bullet back into it and slid it back into the grip of the gun. I switched the safety on and experimentally removed and replaced the magazine a few times before nodding to myself and holding the gun in my hand experimentally.  
  
I had to say, it felt a bit awkward. Not that the gun was too big or that the grip was the wrong shape or something; it just didn’t feel anywhere near as natural in my hand as my sword did. My innate dexterity was leagues better than before I had my power, and I had a feeling that I’d be able to use the gun with relative ease if I needed too, but it definitely would never be my first choice. I liked being prepared though, and could imagine that I’d encounter situations in the future where having a projectile weapon would make things much easier. It would be bad luck if this gun had been used in some horrible crime before and it was traced back to me, but I guess I could just blame that on the ABB if it happened. They definitely scavenged guns when the opportunity presented itself.  
  
I turned back to Ken. “Thank you for the explanation. I’ll hold onto this for now.” He shot a nervous glance at the pistol in my hand before giving a small nod. Reaching behind myself, I felt around in my sash for a good spot and slid the gun into it.  
  
“Um,” He spoke up again, sounding even more nervous than before. “If you intend to shoot it, you have to pull back on the slide to chamber a round before hand.” He mimed the action of holding a gun and pulling back on the top part of it before turning away from me and nervously wringing his hand. “Just didn’t want you to get caught off guard.”  
  
I gave him another silent nod as the door to the club opened, the ambient sound of music once again swelling into a roar.  
  
Mitchel poked his head out and shot a pointed look over at me and Ken before furtively glancing up and down the street. Seeing that things were clear, he strode out more confidently to meet us.  
  
“I heard there was a spot of trouble out here,” he announced, planting his hands on his hips. He turned to me and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Ran them off?”  
  
I nodded in affirmation. “Maybe it’s not any consolation to you, but it seemed like they were just a group of assholes, here specifically for the club, not part of something bigger.”  
  
Mitchel snorted and cocked his head to one side, giving me a probing look. “ _Bigger_ huh?”  
  
He must have still been wondering about what was going on behind the scenes with the gangs. I could only give him a helpless shrug, not willing to stick my neck out to share details when things were still so uncertain.  
  
Thinking about the situation, I remembered that Lung had ordered me to report any contact with the Empire, no matter how small.  
  
“I need to make a phone call,” I announced, reaching back into my sash to pull out my personal cell phone. I didn’t miss the way Ken tensed up when my hand went behind my back. “It shouldn’t take long, but if something else happens before I get back, just shout and I should hear it.”  
  
Without waiting for a reply, I bent my knees and leapt back up to the top of the club before trotting off along the rooftops to get out of earshot.  
  
Opening up my contacts, I scrolled down the short list and selected ‘Contact 01,’ my entry for Lung, and dialed it. He picked up on the fourth ring.  
  
“What?” he demanded without preamble.   
  
“I ran into a group of Empire, nine of them. They didn’t seem like they were retaliating, just picking a fight with the club here. I attacked them, injured a few, and ran them off with a warning.” My report delivered, I held my breath waiting for his reaction.  
  
I definitely hadn’t been as brutal in my response as I could have been, but overall it had seemed like a pretty non-serious situation. I’d decided to operate under a pretext of equivalent force, at least as much as I could get away with. I wouldn’t needlessly risk my own safety or deliberately go against Lungs orders, but if a simple situation was left to my own discretion, I didn’t intend to go all out, carving my way through every gang member I came across. It didn’t sit well with my conscience and it would also draw unnecessary attention from the PRT and heroes. I figured that Lung would at least understand the second part.  
  
For better or worse, he didn’t comment on it.  
  
“The people you brought with you, what are they doing?” I couldn’t sense any negativity in his tone, so I decided to put my worries aside for now.  
  
“I left them to wait in a nearby alley, about half a block away.”  
  
He snorted in response. _“They need experience. Get them involved.”_  
  
The line went dead.  
  
I pulled the phone away from my ear to make sure he’d actually hung up and cursed under my breath as I put it away. He’d told me to keep a low profile, so I didn’t think that my decision to hold them back was wrong. Plus, this new order seemed mutually exclusive to not drawing attention. Had things changed because I’d already encountered a group of the Empire so now it was okay to be seen openly defending? Or had I made a mistake in my judgment, because my interpretation of ‘low profile’ was just too different from Lung’s?  
  
I shook my head, once again casting aside my worries. For now, doing as I was told was most important.  
  
Turning in the direction of the alley, I quickly made my way over, dashing and hopping along the varying levels of the adjoining rooftops. When I reached the final building and peered down over the edge into the alley, my breath caught in my throat.  
  
My group’s SUV was nowhere to be seen.


	8. 1.8

1.8

With my heart thundering in my chest, I tightened my grip on my scabbard, my knuckles popping with the force, and cast aside unnecessary thoughts. Right now, my priority was figuring out what had happened and where my people had gone.

There would be time to panic later.

Turning my head, my eyes flashed over the length of the alley and I spotted something I'd missed before. Someone was standing off to the side, halfway hidden by a small alcove in the wall of one of the buildings. They seemed familiar, and when I took a closer look, I realized that it was the teen who'd lent me his smartphone earlier, so that I could look at a map of the area.

Not wasting any time, I stepped over the side of the building and dropped into the alleyway, kicking off to dash towards him the instant one of my feet had touched the ground. The distance between us vanished in a blink, and on my arrival, I spotted a girl hidden in the shadows of the alcove beside him.

She was sitting on her heels against the wall, hugging her legs to her chest so that she could press her face into her knees. Hiding as she was, it took me a moment to recognize her as the one who'd been our driver.

"What happened?!" I demanded as soon as I came to a stop, my tone sharp. They both flinched with exaggerated motions, the boy recoiling sharply enough that he started to topple over away from me.

Not having the patience to deal with their surprise, my hand snapped out and I latched onto his arm to drag him upright. In my haste, I must have used a bit too much force, if his pained cry were a reliable measure, and I had to remind myself to relax and take a deep breath. With conscious effort, I forced myself to loosen my grip, but didn’t let go entirely.  
  
After I’d stood him up straight, he glanced skittishly in my direction, and shrank in on himself in obvious fear.

"They-" he began, choking on his words and unable to meet my eyes. "Dai- Daisuke took the car and everyone else."

"Daisuke?" I interrupted him, my suspicions mounting. "Who is Daisuke?"

"He- he was the older guy that was with us. He said something about m-making us real men, and that we were leaving." With a shaky hand, he gestured between himself and the girl.

"We tried to tell them that we had to stay here, but they wouldn't listen and kicked us out. I was going to call you, but..." He trailed off and looked down at his hand. I followed his gaze and saw that he was holding the ABB burner phone that Daisuke had tossed away in the car.

_"That piece of shit, I should have known!"_ I mentally cursed to myself. I had thought that I'd sent him a strong enough warning to behave, but obviously I'd underestimated the size of his ego.

One way or another, I had to find them and do something about this before Lung found out. If it really had been a mistake to leave them hiding in the first place, this would be another, bigger strike against me. Beyond that, if I didn't teach them a lesson myself, I knew for a fact that Lung would. That arrogant bastard deserved whatever he had coming to him, but the other people that got roped into going along with him? They definitely shared some fault, but they didn't deserve _Lung_.

"How long ago did they leave? Do you have _any_ idea where they might have gone?" I demanded from him, shaking his entire body with each question. His face took on a queasy air, and it was the girl who spoke up in response.

"They're going to a _fucking_ brothel!" she cursed out, tears obvious in the quaver of her voice. "They said something about nineteenth street and I _know_ I heard my older brother mention one of Lung's places being there in the past."

Pulling her face away from her knees, she looked up at me with a desperate, pleading expression, highlighted by the trails of mascara running down her face. "That was my parents' car. If I don't bring it home-" her words choked off into ugly sobs, and she curled back up, hugging her legs more tightly.

I was dumbfounded.

I wanted to shout at her, ask her if she was _fucking_ stupid, but I forced down my incredulous anger. Maybe she'd been trying to impress her friends by being helpful, maybe she'd been forced to go along with it and hadn’t had a choice. I didn't know her circumstances, and it wasn't my place to judge her.

I didn't have time for this.

"Give me your phone." I demanded, turning back to the trembling teen still in my grip. Wordlessly, he held out the ABB burner phone in his hand. "Not that one!" I snapped, losing what little patience I had left.

He flinched, and hurriedly pulled out his smartphone.

"Bring up the map," I ordered, continuing to pile on demands.

With shaking hands, he thumbed through a few screens and loaded up the map application. Taking the phone from him, I finally let him go and stepped over to the girl. In one motion, I stooped down to grab her under the shoulder, and easily hoisted her to her feet.

"Show me where." I ordered, holding the phone out. Sniffling back tears, she took it and panned the map around, stopping to zoom in on an area of the docks.

With a nervous glance towards me, she pointed at one of the streets. "I don't know where specifically, but it should be somewhere around here."

Silently taking the phone back from her, I studied the area she'd indicated and traced the route south back towards the club to get my bearings. Even if I had to search the whole street, it shouldn't take me long to find them, as long as they were actually there. I'd just need to keep an eye out for the familiar SUV, or gatherings of ABB gang members.

Looking up, I locked the phone's screen and slid it into the back of my sash with the others.

"Come with me," I ordered, beckoning for them to follow. "I'm going to go find them, but you two need to stay here to keep watch."

Abruptly stopping in my tracks, I spun around and clapped my hand down onto the boy's shoulder, meeting his eyes. He froze up and immediately started shaking, faintly twitching his head side to side as though he wanted to turn away, but couldn't bring himself to.

"This time, if something happens, _call me,_ " I all but growled.

Visibly gulping, he nodded his head with jerky movements, and I mercifully let him go.

Storming out of the alleyway with quick but human steps, I marched my way down the street back to the club, my two remaining 'gang members' trailing meekly in my wake. Mitchell and Ken were still standing out in front, chatting with a pair of women dressed for a night out on the town.

Ken was the first to spot me, as he glanced up over one of the women's shoulders mid conversation. I could see him tense up, the easy smile vanishing from his face as he met my eyes across the distance. He took a step forwards,  hesitating for only a moment before decisively placing himself between the pair and myself to push them in the opposite direction.

" _You should go,_ " I distinctly heard him warn, catching the faint tremor in his quiet voice, even from this distance.

Concerned, the women shot a glance over their shoulders and gasped as soon as their eyes landed on me. Without further prompting, they delivered a quick farewell, and hurried off in the opposite direction.

When I reached Mitchell and Ken, I could see them subtly draw away from me, studying what was visible of my expression with an obvious note of caution. After a moment, they seemed to notice the quiet pair of teenagers standing timidly behind me, and turned to give them a curious once over.

"Battousai _,_ " Mitchell began, pausing as his eyes drifted back to meet my own. "Did something happen?"

"There's a small problem I need to go take care of," I replied, my words level and cold. "These two will be standing watch in my place. They have a method of contacting me, should something happen while I'm gone. _Please ensure that they use it._ " A visible shudder ran through them at my turbulent tone, and I ignored the soft whimper that followed from behind me.

With an audible gulp, Mitchell gave me a brief, acknowledging nod, and I turned to walk away from them. After taking a few steps to put some space between us, I dropped my body low to accelerate.

As I pushed off to launch myself forwards, the toe of my boot bit deeply into the ground, and I could _feel_ the concrete of the sidewalk crumbling beneath it. I shot away from the club, accelerating from a standstill to neck breaking speeds in three easy steps, the second touching the ground a half block away from my starting position, the third after another two streets had flown past.

Brockton Bay _rushed_ by around me at speeds too fast for the human eye to follow, but I never lost track of my surroundings. Every car in my path was easily vaulted, every pedestrian sidestepped without breaking pace. If I wasn't so focused on my objective, I might have found it exhilarating to cut loose like this, but with the current circumstances, only the path ahead of me remained in my mind.

It didn't take me long to reach nineteenth street, cutting east to west across the northern side of the city. The grim squalor of the docks was apparent here, with worn down brick and cinderblock buildings pressing in on the narrow lanes from both sides.

As I approached the street, I took several quick steps to cut my speed in half, and kicked off from the sidewalk to cross the four-way intersection diagonally. When I reached the opposite corner, I planted my foot into the side of the curb to help redirect myself, and the impact shattered off a piece of the neglected concrete. It burst out in an explosion of dust, spraying a nearby industrial building with fragments of jagged stone.

Ignoring it, I continued on down the adjoining road.

Now that I was getting close, I decided to take a moment to check my location. Planting my right leg forwards, I bled off a bit more momentum and launched myself into the air, traversing a shallow arc up to the rooftops. Once there, I landed with an easy grace, and slid to a stop against an old chimney.

Pulling out my requisitioned smartphone, I unlocked it using the code I'd sneakily memorized, and took a look at the digital map. Maybe the GPS couldn't cope with the speeds I'd been moving at, but it took a full thirty seconds to figure out my position. When my little dot finally appeared, I quickly confirmed that I was in the correct area, and slid the phone back into my sash.

I set off down the street along the rooftops, carefully keeping track of every vehicle and person that I passed. Whenever I reached an intersection, I made sure to check in both directions, on the off chance that my target was down on one of the side streets, before quickly carrying on. I was moving much more slowly than I'd been on my mad dash over here, but it still didn't take me more than a few seconds to scan each block.

I found the SUV not even five minutes after I'd started my search.

It was parked in a row of cars across the street from a worn down apartment building. Three men wearing ABB colors were loitering around out in front.

Stopping on the roof of the building, I peered down across the street at the SUV, and found no one inside it. Deciding that they must already be in the building, I pushed off from the edge and dropped down right in the middle of the gang members. They reacted predictably, recoiling in shock and shouting out indecipherable exclamations as they reached into their jackets for weapons. I turned my head, shooting each of them a cold glare in turn and they froze up, eyes growing wide as they realized who I was.

Once I was sure that they weren't going to attack me, I calmly closed in on the one standing in front of the door and met his eyes.

"Did a man named Daisuke come here with a group?" I asked him, tone sharp with impatience. He turned away from me, looking over my shoulder to say something in Japanese to the men behind me. His tone was mocking, and he punctuated it with a flippant little gesture.

I'd already had enough of him.

Slamming my palm into the center of his chest, I drove him back against the wall before reaching up to grab his throat, and bodily lifted him off the ground. His eyes shot wide with panic as I constricted his airway, skillfully avoiding his carotid arteries. He reached up and frantically clawed at my forearm in a vain attempt to break free, his nails fruitlessly scratching at the surface of my vambrace.

As the men behind me cried out in outrage, I _felt_ a spike of intent from them, and turned to see them once again reaching to draw their weapons. Silently, I grasped the hilt of my sword with my free hand and looked up to meet their eyes. They froze, fearful gasps hissing in through their clenched teeth, and I held their eyes for several long seconds before turning back to the man in my grasp.

"Is. He. Here?" I demanded, intoning each word deliberately slowly. There was a long, empty pause as he continued to struggle, mindlessly kicking at the air and scrabbling to find some purchase against my unyielding arm. Eventually, the men behind me started to call out in loud, jittery voices.

From the tone and cadence of their speech, it seemed like they were bickering, and every now and then I managed to catch them saying 'Daisuke' in their rapid Japanese. They shouted back and forth a few times, as the face of the man I was choking started to turn blue, before the door to the building suddenly slammed open beside me.

An older man with graying hair and glasses started to step out, an annoyed expression on his face, but when he saw me holding the struggling man more than twice my bulk, he flinched backwards, paling. The men behind me shouted something out and he replied to them in a panicked tone, gesturing in my direction. They responded, and I once again caught them say 'Daisuke' before the older man turned to glance back into the interior of the building, blinking rapidly in thought. Seeming to come to a realization, he turned back to me and held his hands out in a placating manner.

"Ah-ah, eh, he-he is here! He is here!" he called out to me in heavily accented English, seeming to take a moment to find the right words to use. He pointed behind himself into the building. "I-I take you to him, okay?"

I turned to him and waited another moment before releasing my grip on the suffocating man. He collapsed to the ground and clutched at his throat, coughing and gasping with desperate abandon. I stepped over his prone body with affected indifference, and followed the older man into the building.

Though the facade had seemed like an ordinary apartment complex, the interior gave me the feeling of a cheap motel with an artificial, oriental flair. The walls were covered with a tacky red and gold wallpaper, accented by a number of statues, hanging decorations, and fake plants. They were littered around the foyer, seemingly at random, with no discernible pattern or design.

Directly opposite the entrance was something of a welcome desk, replete with a grimy little bell, a waxy looking fern, and a creepy statue of a wide-eyed, waving cat. Next to the desk was a narrow hallway that stretched back into the gloom of the building. It was lined with numerous doors that seemed far too close together for their rooms to be comfortably sized.

The entire place reeked with the stench of mold, sweat, cigarettes, and another thick, cloying odor that seemed to stick to the back of my throat.

As I followed the old man in, doing my best to not breathe through my nose, another space came into view around a corner to my left.

It was a narrow room, lined by squat chairs with stained upholstery, and a filthy carpet covered with cigarette butts and ash. There were three teenage boys sitting there, busying themselves with their phones as they fidgeted uncomfortably in the chairs with stiff expressions.

I recognized them as my missing gang members.

Abruptly stopping in my tracks, I placed my left hand deliberately onto the hilt of my sword and stared at them in silence. As though he could feel my gaze, one of the teens glanced up and met my eyes with a gasp. Alerted, the other two turned to him before following his line of sight, becoming statues as soon as they saw me.

I stood there, watching them with unblinking eyes, for seconds that seemed to stretch out endlessly. They started to tremble, quaking in their seats and unable to turn away.

When the old man realized that I wasn’t following him anymore, he turned to see what had happened. I heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth, and he muttered what sounded like a quiet prayer.

As visible beads of sweat started to form on the three’s foreheads, the old man took a few cautious steps towards me, clutching his hands together as his eyes were throwing out a silent plea.

“You want Daisuke, yes?” he tried to draw my attention. “Here, here, this way!” he beckoned me along after him, towards the hallway.

I maintained my silent glare.

The old man’s hands went to his head and he gripped at his thinning hair, breathing out panicked lamentations. “Ah-ah-ah! P-please, do not fight inside, okay? I take you to Daisuke, you take them outside, okay? _Okay_?!”

I held my position for another few moments, before turning to follow him.

A trio of desperate gasps burst out behind me as soon as I broke eye contact, the three sucking in rasping breaths as though they’d been having trouble breathing.

When the old man saw that he had my attention, he immediately spun around, rushing towards the hallway with frantic steps. As I followed him deeper into the building, I felt myself being enveloped by a frantic discord of discomposing sounds.

There was the rustling of blankets, shifting against each other in time with the motion of skin across skin, like a wispy rhythm. Breathy voices leaked out, sighing through the air to conceal quiet, pained whimpers in an ever-changing chorus. There was so much dynamic _movement_ that the floor rocked with a frantic fervor.

The space seemed to thrum around me with an unignorable passion. It ground against my enhanced senses like heavy static, sending uncomfortable shudders crawling down my spine. I did my best to block it out, despite the fleeting, grainy pictures painted within my mind’s eye of the scenes behind the doors.

I hated it, hated that I had to be here, hated that I’d been forced to come because one arrogant bastard couldn’t just be patient and do what I’d fucking said.

As the old man quickly approached a door, he knocked with a few quiet taps of his knuckles and called out in hesitant Japanese. The vibrations in the air sent a shock through my already agitated nerves, and my mental picture of the room flared into a brief but greater clarity.

There was a listless woman sprawled out limply on top of a pile of what seemed to be blankets and cushions. A man was above her, moving rhythmically until the knock disrupted him. When he turned to face the door, I could just barely make out Daisuke’s face, like a fleeting snapshot in my imagination, as it distorted in obvious irritation.

He called out angrily in Japanese, before turning back to resume his activity.

After a hesitant pause, the old man started to give a meek reply, before I stepped up and forced him to the side.

Lashing out, I slammed the base of my palm into the edge of the door and it _exploded_ open, the internals of the cheap metal latch shattering and spraying pieces out across the floor. The pair were startled to alertness, the woman screaming out in fear as Daisuke lurched to his feet with a furious exclamation. He bent low and scrambled to hoist his pants up from where they sat around his ankles.

As I stood menacingly in the doorway, a cold fury burning in my eyes, I saw recognition root itself in his expression as he realized what was going on. He hesitated for only a moment, before turning away from me and lunging towards a corner of the room. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and I glanced towards his objective, spotting a jacket sitting on the floor in a heap.

I made my move, crossing the distance to him in an instant, and brought my knee up to slam into his bare abdomen. It hit with a meaty thud and he collapsed to his knees, spewing out the contents of his stomach. He was down for only a moment before moving again.

Without wasting the time to even wipe the bile from his mouth, he managed to get his feet beneath him, and dove across the floor to grab the jacket. Getting a hand on it, he dragged it to himself and frantically pulled the material apart to search for something inside. As I stalked closer to him, I took my scabbard into my left hand and pulled the sheathed sword from my waist.

His hands seemed to settle around a solid object in a pocket, likely a gun from the shape, and he rolled over onto his back, carrying it with him without pulling it free. As he began to bring the obvious weapon to bear, despite it still being buried in the material, I grasped the hilt of my sword and drew it in a simultaneous strike.

My blade flashed out, faster than the eye could hope to follow, and cleaved effortlessly through my target. The jacket was sliced apart, revealing a cleanly cut pistol falling in pieces to the floor. It was followed immediately after by all of the fingers on Daisuke’s right hand.

I stared impassively, naked blade held ready at my side, as a long moment passed before he seemed to realize what had happened. He stared at his hand in shock, as blood welled out from the stumps of his fingers to drip messily down his arm. It seemed to take seconds for the pain to finally reach his brain, but when it did, he recoiled sharply, back arching on the ground and screaming his voice hoarse in agony.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he howled in a drawn out exclamation, rolling onto his side to clutch his injured hand to his chest. “You bitch! You _fucking bitch_!”

With a sharp flick of my sword, I scattered several droplets of blood across the wall before sheathing the blade in a quick, fluid motion. I slid the scabbard back into my sash and stooped down, wrapping my fingers into his disgusting, greasy hair. When I pulled up, he screamed out again and scrambled to get his legs beneath him, reaching up with his uninjured hand to grab at me for support.

Unwilling to tolerate his touch, I pulled one of my hands away and rammed my knuckles into his naked back, forcing him up against the wall. He tried to catch himself, reaching out with both arms to stymie the impact, but his resistance crumbled with an agonized _howl_ as his severed fingers slammed into the hard surface.

Somehow, he managed to retain his senses and lashed out, striking back at my face with his left elbow. I caught it easily, and hooked my right forearm underneath his joint to wrench his arm out straight, pinning it with leverage in the crook of my neck, on top of my right shoulder. Finally, I hooked my right arm underneath his right shoulder and reached around to grab him by the back of the neck. Keeping a firm grip, I yanked him to the side to hold in front of me, and forced him stumbling out of the room.

As we moved into the hallway, I realized that our confrontation had alerted the other patrons. Doors began to creak open so that cautious faces could peek out to find the source of the commotion. I ignored them, staring resolutely ahead as I marched my belligerent captive away.

Suddenly, a warning seemed to blare through my mind and my body tensed, eyes snapping over to focus on a shirtless man emerging from a doorway to the left. He stepped out into the hallway, a pistol in his hand and his expression twisted into an angry sneer. When he spotted me, I saw murder surge into his eyes.

I responded immediately, carrying Daisuke forwards with me as I closed the distance on my wouldbe assailant. My left hand went to the hilt of my sword, and I drew it into a reverse handed strike. Once again, the edge of the blade easily cleaved through the body of the handgun, rendering it inoperable. The man’s fingers were spared, but as I finished carrying through the arc of my swing, I pulled my elbow down sharply, slamming it into his shoulder.

There was a resounding _crack_ as his collarbone snapped in two, and he collapsed backwards into the darkness of the room, once more filling the building with agonized screams.

No one dared to oppose me after that, and I made my way out into the foyer unmolested.

As I passed through, I shot a steely glare at the three junior gang members, still lingering in the grungy waiting area with fearful expressions.

“Outside, _now_ ,” I spat out, my acidic order spurring them to motion.

Without sparing them a second glance, I stormed out through the wide open front door and _hurled_ Daisuke out into the middle of the street. He flew a fair distance, flailing wildly through the air, before his back slammed down onto the pavement. His body rolled a few times with the leftover momentum, and when he finally came to a stop, his face was distorted in a drawn out, soundless scream.

I stalked over at an unhurried pace, taking my time to glower down at him as my fingers drummed out a steady rhythm on the hilt of my sword. I came to a stop a few feet to his side, silently looming over him with obvious disdain. Behind me, I could hear the quiet rustling of clothing, as a number of people filed out of the brothel to watch the spectacle from the side of the street.

The air was heavy with a grim attention, and no one dared to make a sound.

Daisuke’s chest was heaving with pained gasps, sweat pouring out in rivers from the surface of his skin, but even so, he continued to struggle. Visibly fighting with his own body to force himself to stand, he managed to prop his uninjured arm beneath himself and shakily rose to his feet.

He kept his wounded right hand pressed to his chest, blood trailing down the toned muscles of his abdomen to stain the front of his pants, and brought up his left, curled into a quivering fist. With reckless determination, he lowered himself into an unsteady fighting stance, and watched me with wide, desperate eyes. Finally gathering his nerves, he roared out a primal war cry and came charging forwards.

I stared back impassively, my mind automatically tearing apart and breaking down every minute detail in his form. Though his style was wild and sloppy, I could _see_ that he was an experienced street fighter. It was as though hundreds of battles from his past played out in my mind, overlapping with his real body as he closed the distance in what felt like slow motion.

Every blow he’d taken was something he’d learned from, every fight containing a lesson applied to the future. He’d taught himself with experience alone, getting just a little bit better and a little bit smarter every time he’d managed to walk away from a confrontation with his life.

Here now, on full display before my innate, superhuman skill, it was worth _nothing_.

As his attack came closing in on my face, a wild haymaker sacrificing poise for sheer power, I unwaveringly met his eyes and leaned my head back a mere four inches, the bare minimum to dodge his desperate strike. His fist _whooshed_ past my nose and I grabbed my sword, abruptly pulling it up to slam the pommel into his diaphragm.

I stepped to the side as he doubled over, falling to his knees and retching to empty whatever else happened to be left in his stomach. Carrying through the motion, I pulled the scabbard free of my sash, this time grabbing the hilt of the blade and drawing it immediately to hold at my side.

He turned his head to glare at me, and with a deft motion I reversed my grip on the scabbard before lashing it down. It struck across his jaw hard enough to whip his head to the side, eliciting a messy spray of saliva and blood. He crumpled to the ground, rolling with the force of the strike to lie limply on his back, chest heaving up and down with each breath.

His eyes were closed, but I could tell that he was still conscious.

“ _Stand up_ ,” I commanded, my voice so cold and devoid of emotion, that I couldn’t even recognize it as my own.

His eyelids fluttered open and his gaze turned towards me, first falling on my face before sliding down to the sword in my hand. He seemed to deflate, defeat and resignation sweeping in to cloud his once defiant eyes. They closed a moment later, and after a short, heavy silence, he managed to slur out a weak reply.

“ _Jus’ do it. Kill me._ ”

A shudder ran through me like a shock down my spine, and my hand tightened painfully around the hilt of my sword. I stared down at him, bloodied and broken at my feet, and my heart started to thunder in my chest.

Almost beyond my control, my gaze wandered over the ground, passing over the dark sprays of blood, the pool of vomit, and finally coming to rest on the dripping stain at the end of my scabbard.

Clenching my teeth together hard enough to hurt, I desperately swallowed down the bile rising up my throat.

With an abrupt, precise motion, I slipped my blade back into its scabbard, and stooped over to quickly wipe the blood off on my victim’s pants. With it relatively clean, I slid it back into my sash and glanced down at his face again.

“If you’re so eager to die, then I suggest you lay there until you bleed to death,” I spat out, managing to keep my voice from quavering.

Once I’d left the area, I was sure that someone would take him to a hospital. They’d been covering for him when I’d first arrived, after all.

I turned away, hurriedly scanning the small crowd that had gathered, before finding my three wayward gang members. All three of them were staring down at Daisuke’s prone form with blank, ashen faces.

_‘Maybe now they won’t get themselves killed,’_ I tried to convince myself, as though I were some noble individual teaching them a hard lesson for their own good.

“Hey!” I called out, startling them enough that they visibly jumped. When they turned to face me, I could see the obvious terror in their body language, all three of them expecting the worst.

I did my best to ignore it.

“Where are the keys for the car?”

My question seemed to surprise them, but they managed to recover a bit of their nerve _fairly_ quickly. They looked between themselves, and after a momentary, silent exchange, the bravest one stepped forwards and called back in a feeble voice,

“ _Dai- Daisuke had them_ …”

I mentally cursed as I turned back to study the profile of the fallen man’s pants pockets. With my sharp vision, I didn’t see anything that looked like the outline of a set of keys, so I was pretty sure that he didn’t have them on him. They must have been in his jacket, back in the room.

“Go inside and find them,” I ordered, realizing that I shouldn’t be seen searching myself.

They glanced at each other in uncertain anxiety, before all three clumsily turned to head back into the building. As they approached, the old man from before subtly waved them along after him, attempting to keep out of my line of sight.

I didn’t have to wait long before they reappeared with the keys.

Giving the group a once over, I glanced back at the SUV. “Which of you can drive?”

The one who’d answered me before stepped forwards. “I-I can,” he managed to stammer out.

I gave a perfunctory nod. “Good, we’re going back.”

They fidgeted nervously for a moment, and I turned to walk towards the car by myself in consideration. I circled around, and stopped decisively by the passenger door.

Once they’d seen me choose my seat, the trio hurried over and immediately piled in. Without a word, I slid into the plush upholstery and pulled my sheathed sword out to hold between my legs. Doing his best to keep his eyes resolutely ahead, our driver started the engine and cautiously pulled out onto the decrepit city streets.

The ride back to the club was absolutely silent, leaving me alone with my frantic thoughts, and my painfully churning stomach.


End file.
